


The Murder of Lord Robert Baratheon

by notanescalator



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1930s Murder Mystery AU, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, as much as any of this is canon, dramatic siblings, fictitious Germanic countries with unimaginitive names, glamorous homosexuals, one (1) canonical character death, this is what happens when you watch Agatha Christie and Gosford Park too close together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2020-03-08 20:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18901636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notanescalator/pseuds/notanescalator
Summary: On a mild weekend in October of '32, Cersei Baratheon is playing glamorous/resentful hostess to a combustive mixture of English nobility, Hollywood stars of dubious sexuality, and one enigmatic businesswoman. The household was prepared for dropped glasses, awkward conversations and family shouting matches. A dead host? Not so much.And who's to tell which of the partygoers' many secrets are tied to murder?





	1. Chapter 1

Stormsend Castle was ripe with the scent of orchids, the white October sunlight pouring from room to room like water. Soft voices of the servants filled distant spaces like ghosts, door hinges and floorboards creaking in their wake. The atmosphere was one of anxious industriousness, such as it always was around those employed by Lady Cersei Baratheon, but it was compounded by their duty in preparing for one the most important events of her year – the annual shooting party.

The castle was a colourless but imposing Jacobethan-style structure folded into the Hertfordshire countryside, and it had the dubious honour of playing home to Robert Baratheon, the Earl of Stormsend, as well as his wife and three children. An army of servants helped to populate the cavernous rooms when guests were not in residence, but did little to counteract the tension between their Lord and Lady which permeated their daily life.

The few staff that Jaime managed to catch a glimpse of - ashen-faced as they drifted swiftly from room to room, task to task – paid him little to no attention. It was an unspoken understanding that any family member's needs – prior to the weekend's commencement, at least, when the performance of duty must be exemplary – was secondary to the ire of their hostess. He knew the house well enough to find what he needed, anyway, and had never had very much stomach for people fussing around him over something so trivial as a cup of tea. 

As he made his way to the entrance hall – conspicuously deserted – his sister's voice floated to him.

“...Yes. Yes, I know you do. But darling,  _if_ you leave now you can make it here in plenty of time. Do you understand what I'm saying?” 

She spoke low, but he could detect the current of urgency that shot through her voice. He came upon her seated at the telephone alcove, body turned elegantly sideways, her face turned down and away from anyone who might approach her. She was still in her riding clothes, a few wisps of blonde hair escaping from her bob. A cloud of cigarette smoke in the air above her trailed down to her left hand, like a connected thread. There was a tautness to her body that betrayed the frustration she was trying to keep from her voice. 

Her head snapped round suddenly in search of her voyeur, but she relaxed just a little when she saw it was Jaime. 

He mouthed: _Joffrey?_

She pinched her eyes closed for moment, either in confirmation or as reaction to something said on the line. She half-turned away once more, and Jaime leaned against the banister trying to emit some sympathetic wave that might envelop her. Honestly, for all her transgressions, her eldest was a little shit and she needed every ounce of sympathy Jaime could spare her. Her voice was rising now. 

“--st try. Just try, is all I'm asking. You know it's very important--” She stopped abruptly, motionless for a moment. “Joffrey?” She flicked the hook switch in vain, and then – after seemingly warring over whether to launch it at the wall - replaced the phone with a clatter. 

Jaime grimaced. There were only two people who would dare hang up on Cersei; Joffrey, or Robert. Even when she was at war with Jaime or, more often, Tyrion, she always managed to hang up first. 

(“I came so  _close_ , once!” Tyrion had told him, when they had both been senselessly drunk in the bar of the Criterion. He had held his finger and thumb out to illustrate his point. “But just,  _just_ as I was about to, she beat me to it!” 

“I marvel at the pursuits of an academic such as yourself,” Jaime had sighed, and Tyrion had flicked whiskey in his eye.) 

Cersei got to her feet, patted at the side of her hair that been pressed against the earpiece, and smoothed down her suit. When she finally looked at him, there was a severity in her eyes that made him feel guilty of something. 

“Don't.” 

Jaime threw his hands out in supplication. “Did I say a word?” 

“You didn't have to.” She marched past him up the staircase, and he wheeled around to follow her. Her speech seemed to rise and fall with each angry step. The gallery was lined with portraits of Robert's ancestors; the men were fiery-eyed, Viking-like, the women pale and uncomfortable-looking, and they all seemed to peer down at Cersei and Jaime with ghostly disdain. “I foolishly thought, just once, he might not show me up. I thought when he went away to university, things might just change.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “That university is full of entitled little pricks egging each other on.” He held a hand to his chest with mock-pride as they stepped onto the landing. “I should know. You  _really_ thought it would be a good influence?”

“Good? Of course not. The higher-born men are, the more degenerate.” Cersei sighed, dropped her voice despite their being alone on the floor. “But at least I thought he'd be more preoccupied with buggery and kidnapping swans, and Robert's influence would weaken a bit.”

She opened the door to the Chinese bedroom, which she stayed in when guests were not present, and stubbed out her cigarette before crossing to the wardrobe. Appearance was important to Cersei, but not so important that she would stomach Robert's presence in her bed without necessity. The whisperings of the servants were beneath her. She had produced three children – rumours about their paternity notwithstanding – so as far as she was concerned, she had done her part and Tywin could not complain. Also, as she had told Jaime, she had no desire to be privy to the women that Robert smuggled into his room.

Jaime wondered if Robert was truly thickheaded enough to do this in the house, even if only the servants were witness to it. Servant gossip passed from household to household, and often reached the ears of the employers. He couldn't care less about Robert's reputation, but he did care about Cersei's. She, absurdly, was more likely to be the butt of the joke if her husband was so notoriously wayward.

Cersei shrugged off her jacket as Jaime closed the door, and he moved to the window to light a cigarette. His gaze drifted to where the sunlight rolled over the gardens, and beyond them the paddock, shooting field and sprinkle of woodland. By the trees he could see a metallic sliver where the light caught the pond, and then the clouds shifted and the effect was lost. He had never liked this house much. There was something quite grim about the Baratheon estates, and as much time as he spent fleeing Casterly to hide in London, Jaime could appreciate the beauty of the house he was born in, the Cornwall landscape. Where Casterly had an almost cathedral-like brilliance and airiness, Stormsend felt claustrophobic and drained of character. 

Behind him, Jaime heard the rustle of fabric as Cersei divested herself of her barely spoiled riding clothes. 

“I hardly see him,” she said, as if she had never stopped talking. “And when I do he seems more brutish, and he follows Robert around like a dog, trying to get the tiniest bit of praise from him. I'm like this shared joke between them. Bonding over how much they hate me.” Her tone had been flat, cold, but at the end she drew a sharp breath, as if something was driven between her ribs. Even when Cersei shut others out – including, on rare occasions, Jaime - her love for her children held fast. 

Being her eldest, Joffrey had had that love the longest. He had been a sickly thing at first, so even as he slowly grew into a beastly child, absorbing Robert's callousness and obsession with strength, with power, Cersei poured her love into him all the same. She spoiled him rotten, which didn't help. By the time Cersei realised that he needed to be checked, he no longer listened to her. Only Robert and Tywin had his respect. 

“Perhaps, then,” Jaime began, tentative, “it's better if he's not here this weekend? You don't want to have to be corralling him along with the others.” 

Cersei materialised beside him in a clean blouse and crisply pressed trousers, and fished the packet of cigarettes from his pocket. “Oh, and the Starks would love that, wouldn't they.” She flicked the lighter like a knife. “Catelyn and her precious brood. Any chance to make helpful comments about my parenting.” 

“Cat is a snob,” Jaime conceded, “but so are you. You can't fault her for giving as good as she gets.” 

“You're right, I should be kinder.” Cersei tilted her head carefully at him. “And you can become dear friends with Eddard.” 

Jaime was unable to stop his lip from curling. “Touché.” 

Ned Stark was an undeniably honourable man - that was a compliment Jaime could offer when pressed. He was disciplined, had made good use of his education, despite being more known for his rowing and rugby in university. Also, he had earned the medals he staggered home from war with, far more than Robert, Jaime could testify firsthand to that. Yet that honourable nature had a downside; it was born from a multitude of old-fashioned philosophies that often made him single-minded, restricted by concepts of duty. That stubbornness kept him immune to Jaime's charms, and Jaime only had so much energy to try and relate to him. 

The war had been a senseless one, with too much wasted blood in the ground. Jaime had kept his men at bay for as long as possible, obfuscating orders from their general to go closer to the front. Every day encouraged another futile action that would only bring about a larger pile of corpses, and Jaime could not support it. Yet Ned had read that as cowardice, disloyalty, and it was something on which the two could never agree. 

Jaime got to his feet and placed his hands on Cersei's shoulders, holding her gaze. “Damn what the Starks say. You have given that boy  _everything_. And then some.” He gave her upper arms a comforting rub, and her frame relaxed just slightly. “It's Robert that's the problem. And you know, if you want me to-” 

A gentle knock came at the door. 

Jaime dropped his arms dramatically and Cersei sighed. “Come in.” 

An upstairs maid, Evelyn, slipped into the room. Jaime noticed her eyes briefly take in the lack of personal space between himself and Cersei, likely filing it away for servant hall gossip later. 

“There's a telephone call for you, Your Lordship,” she said, with a peculiar smile. 

“Who is it?” 

“Oh, uh, said it was...  _Bunty_ , Sir. From the King's Landing Club.” 

“Andrew Bunting?” Cersei groaned. “You're not seriously still traipsing around London with that simpleton, are you? Do you have any shame?” 

“He happens to be very amusing company,” Jaime said, swiping his cigarettes back from her and making his way to the door. 

“Only in the way that syphilis is amusing.” 

Once downstairs, Jaime thanked Evelyn and encouraged her to return to the nerve-shredding chaos of preparing for the guests. She needed very little push, and he called a hearty good luck as he sat down at the telephone. 

Scanning the foyer, the staircase and gallery, he satisified himself that he was alone and picked it up. 

“You are getting  _very_ bold.”

 

~*~

 

“I really don't see why I have to go.” 

Arya might as well have been addressing a statue, for all the reaction it provoked in her mother. 

“I said, I don't--” 

“I heard you perfectly well, Arya. And you know my feelings on the matter.” Catelyn gave a meaningful pause, and then looked up from her embroidery. “It's about duty. Your future depends on how you behave in society, and so you must engage with it, whether you like it or not.” 

“But Cersei won't care if I'm not there. She  _hates_ me.” 

“She hates all of us,” Robb pointed out, leaning back into the sofa. “You're not special.” As his feet came dangerously close to the upholstery, Catelyn gave a demonstrative flick of her eyes. Robb dropped his feet to the floor and sat up straight, looking cowed. 

Arya folded her arms and waited for Catelyn to reply, but it seemed as though she considered the matter closed. 

Something came to Arya, and it was out of her mouth before she thought better of it: “You're only taking us so you can boast that we're better than Joffrey.” 

Robb's eyes went wide, and - in the heavy silence following Arya's words - seemed to be trying to discern whether he could discreetly roll over the back of the sofa and out of the room. Catelyn placed her embroidery down very carefully, and looked up at Arya, who flinched slightly but didn't step back. When Catelyn spoke, her tone was diplomatic in a way that chilled Arya's organs. 

“Robert is a dear, old friend of your father. Your father works incredibly hard, taking care of us and this estate, and does not get to see his friends often. This is a chance for him to relax for once, and show off how very proud he is of his children.” Arya lowered her head, waves of guilt bearing down on her. Catelyn must have known she had her, but she continued anyway. “But of course if you would like to embarrass him so you can stay here and sulk all weekend, you are welcome to do so. I'm sure his feelings won't be too hurt.” 

Arya opened her mouth a few times, hoping some useful words would form themselves. She glanced over at Robb, but the look in his eyes very clearly said that she was finished. 

She sighed heavily, dropping her arms to her sides. “I'll go finish packing.” 

As she climbed the staircase, guilt gave way to frustration again, and she clomped up the last few steps aggressively. Jon emerged from his room, poorly concealing a grin. 

“No luck?” 

“Nope.” Arya continued to stalk down the hallway to her room. 

He sighed. “I told you.” 

As Arya passed Sansa's room, the door opened and she leaned out. “Oh, it's you. I thought there was an elephant in the hallway.” 

“Piss off.” 

Arya ducked into her own room and promptly went to flop backwards onto the bed, hard enough that it bounced several times and sent a cushion onto the floor. She started to run through scenarios that could prevent her from going. Mutilation, sudden viruses, poison, monsters from outer space. It was all very uninspired. 

Sansa appeared in the doorway, a fresh set of pyjamas folded over her arm. “I don't know why you're being so dramatic. It's not going to be that bad.” 

“Easy for you to say.” Arya pushed herself up onto her elbows. “Your  _precious_ Joffrey is going to be there.” 

“No.” Sansa's expression went suddenly dark. “He's not my... That's over.” She turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Arya alone in confusion. She got to her feet and crossed the hall, finding Sansa deliberating things for her maid to pack. Arya couldn't see Sansa's face, but there was a heaviness to her shoulders that worried her. 

“Since when?” 

Sansa paused in the middle of assessing two dresses, her hand tightening on the sleeve of one of them, tight enough for her knuckles to whiten. She then held the blue one out to Isobel as if nothing had happened. “Since December.” 

Six months. 

“But...” Arya struggled to process it, face drawing tight in confusion. “I thought he proposed? Or, was going to propose?” 

“No.” Sansa sniffed and straightened up, turning to face her. “He never intended to propose. He was just... dangling the possibility of it over my head.” One of her sleeves was folded over, and she reached down to correct it, trying to affect a light tone. “I think I was only something to amuse him.”

Arya felt anger coursing hotly through her body, muscles seizing as she resisted the urge to clench her fists. 

“You didn't say anything,” she said slowly, trying to keep her voice even. “You didn't tell me.” 

Sansa smiled, but it was an awful, sad smile. “I knew what you'd say. You were always teasing me about him.” She went to the wardrobe and closed it. “About how stupid I was being, wasting my time on him. Well, you were right. But I was still-- I didn't want you shouting 'I told you so' in my face.” 

Arya hoped she wouldn't have been so callous to do that, but she couldn't exactly fault Sansa for fearing that she would. Arya had had Joffrey's number from the start, and made no real effort to pretend otherwise. He was a selfish, arrogant, nasty piece of work, but when he wanted to he could conceal it with a little charm and false chivalry, and when needed he could play the victim. Sansa had been taken in, although it wasn't long before she started to see the behaviour that the other Starks had already noticed. But Sansa was romantic, hopeful, and it had clearly been hard to let go of the fantasy that Joffrey tried to sell her. So, any time Arya tried to get her to see sense, Sansa pushed back, and the more his true colours showed the harder she pushed. 

Arya went and sat on the edge of Sansa's bed, and took her hand, squeezing it. In her mind, she was imagining all the things she would like to do to Joffrey, things that would make even her brothers blanch. But Sansa needed words of encouragement, not violence. 

“You should take the green dress.” 

Sansa looked at her quizzically. 

Arya placed her free hand on the shimmering, emerald gown that had been laid out for Sansa's consideration. “You look really nice in that one.” Arya smiled hesitantly, and to her relief, Sansa mirrored it. She swayed Arya's hand slightly, as they did when they were girls. 

“You know,” she said, after a few moments, “you  _could_ ask Mother to let you stay and look after Rickon? She might fall for it if you said you wanted practice for your own children.”

Arya tried not to snort. Catelyn wouldn't buy that; she had spent enough time trying to combat Arya's aversion to motherhood, and Arya had already tried too many excuses for that to stick. It didn't matter anyway – there was no way she was letting Sansa face Joffrey alone now. 

Arya shook her head. “He doesn't need anyone else when he's got Osha.” She picked up one of Sansa's hats and put it on her head. “I'll survive.” 

“Give me that. You'll bend it.” Sansa snatched it away and Arya stuck out her tongue. “Oh! Oh!” Sansa abruptly seized Arya's shoulders, her eyes so large and luminous that Arya was afraid she was having some kind of fit. “You'll never guess who's coming this weekend! Guess!” 

“Well, you just said I'd never guess, so what's the point in me trying.” 

“Oh, Arya--” 

“Just tell me, for God's sake.” 

Sansa released Arya's shoulders and framed the air with her hands, as if physically handing the name to her. “Loras. Tyrell.” She was bouncing slightly on her feet now. 

Arya frowned. “The film star?” Sansa nodded as if her head were on a spring. “Why's he coming?” 

“Because Renly married his sister.” 

Bran had appeared in the doorway, and Sansa jumped, rounding on him immediately. “Could you  _knock_?” 

Bran looked slowly at the open door, then at her. He carefully wheeled back into the corridor and pulled the door closed in front of him. Arya and Sansa stared at it for a moment, and then there was a muffled knock.  

“ _Good sister, may I be permitted to enter._ ” 

Arya gurgled on a laugh, and Sansa went and yanked the door open, prompting Bran to roll dramatically into the room. Arya knew Sansa was likely irritated that her story had been commandeered. The two of them had a gossip one-upmanship that – to Sansa's extreme displeasure – Bran always seemed to be winning. How he accumulated so much of it, Arya had no idea, but he had a habit of dropping it at odd moments. 

“Renly  _married_ Margaery Tyrell?” Arya asked, incredulous, and Sansa went to plop onto the bed behind her, defeated once again. 

Bran nodded. “Two weeks ago. They basically eloped. Stannis hit the roof.” 

“Why? Renly's the youngest, why should it matter who he marries?” 

“Youngest or not, marrying an actress is still considered beneath them,” Sansa pointed out, glumly. 

“Especially one with Margaery's reputation,” Bran added. 

Margaery Tyrell was a film star like her brother. She had evidently been bored by the British film industry, and moved to Hollywood, where she became something of a sex symbol since she transferred to Hollywood. Arya had heard rumours, too, that it was backed up in her private life, and she had perhaps even been involved with women. Loras had trained as a dancer, but his magnetism meant that the camera was drawn to him regardless of his suitability for a part. 

“But they're coming?” Arya asked. 

“Only thanks to Robert,” Bran answered, “Father said that Cersei was fuming about it.” 

“I can't believe it though,” Sansa murmured, gaze somewhere on the ceiling. “Both of the Tyrells. Do you think... Do you think Loras is as handsome in person?” 

“I think,” Arya said, thoughtfully, “that he looks like a drunk pixie.” 

Sansa bounced up and off the bed, visibly exasperated. “All right, that's it. Both of you get out. I'll never be ready with you two here. Just--” 

Arya staggered backward laughing as Sansa shooed her, and wheeled Bran into the hall, bumping the door frame slightly as she did so. She was barely in the corridor before Sansa shut the door behind her, her laughter mingling with Bran's. 

“We should pack,” Arya admitted, voice heavy with disgust. 

Bran shrugged. “I'm already packed.” 

Arya rolled her eyes. “Of course you are.” 

She headed back in the direction of her room, and then paused. “I thought that Renly...” She trailed off. There were some things even she wouldn't mention too loudly. “I thought he was quite happy as he was. How come he married Margaery?” 

Bran glanced up and down the hall and dropped his voice. “I hear Loras introduced them.” 

“...Oh _._ ”

 

~*~

 

The sun streaking down through the roof of the station almost reminded Tyrion of a church, the smoke making curious, unearthly effects as it passed through the light. London was raucous and filthy, the streets twisted in on each other and swallowed themselves, and people heaved over each other like insects. 

Tyrion loved it. At Casterly, or even Stormsend, there was too much space for one's thoughts. Too much time to be filled with respectable, tedious pursuits and repetitive conversations. In the city, he could breathe free from his father's disdain, from his sister's hatred, and from the pantomimes of their society. Out of sight, out of mind was Tywin's attitude to his youngest, and Tyrion embraced it. 

Being then in the capital, when he would so shortly have to return to Hertfordshire and the ill humour of his family – Jaime excepted, of course – just made it bittersweet. His distracted nature had not escaped Shae, an actress whose bed he often shared when in London, and she had repeatedly tried to push him back into it. She had even tried sitting on him when he refused to stay put. 

(“If it's going to be such torture, why even go?” she had asked, bracketing his head with her arms. “Every time I hear you complain, and every time you still go. Move to the city permanently and be done with it.” 

“I cannot leave Jaime to waste up there alone, and  _he_ will not leave Cersei,” Tyrion sighed, rubbing her hip absentmindedly. “And Cersei is only there because our father handed her off to Robert. So you see, we have a vulgar chain of loyalty.” 

“I don't think it's just that.” 

His left hand paused on its way up to her breast. “Oh no?” 

“I think... You don't want to give your father the satisfaction of disappearing completely, so you make sure to hang around. Keep in touch. Just enough to stay fresh in his memory.” 

Tyrion raised his eyebrows, unwilling to concede that point too easily. “I am very petty then, in your estimation.” 

Shae sighed, tilting her perceptive gaze at him. “Your family has a close relationship with suffering.” 

“It is a faithful bedfellow of ours,” Tyrion agreed, tone one of dramatic resignation. 

Shae caught his chin firmly. “And which bedfellow do you prefer?” 

Tyrion schooled his features for a few seconds, and then finally grinned, pulling her close.) 

Shae had followed him to the station afterward, as energetic as a girl on a school trip. She knew – at no small nick to her pride – that she could not go back to Hertfordshire with him, but she had been adamant about seeing the Targaryen woman. They were waiting at a bench on the expected platform, with Shae picking at a Chelsea bun and Tyrion people-watching. 

“She's not actually royalty, though?” Shae asked. “I've heard her called a princess, or a queen. But Eidechstal doesn't have a royal family.” 

Tyrion shook his head. “Her father Aerys had a lot of so-called royal titles. His family had manufactured weapons for decades but _he_  made the name Targaryen synonymous with it. People called him the Arms King and so forth.” He scoffed. “Very imaginative. But during the last war, he was very focused on the use of aircraft for bombing for surveillance. They started calling him the King of Aerial Warfare. Alas, the King was not fighting for us.” 

“Didn't seem to matter,” Shae shrugged, “we won anyway.” 

“Ah, well. Aerys's disposition might have had something to do with that. Toward the end of the war he was getting caught up in development for new weaponry, new bombing methods, and didn't seem too picky about who he experimented on. The Germans were having trouble keeping him in line, and he was starting to show a very sadistic side. I've seen photographs...” Tyrion trailed off, the memory twisting his stomach. “Not long after, he and his son Rhaegar were killed in a factory explosion. It  _might_ have been an accident or-” 

“-It might've been the Germans cleaning up.” 

“Indeed.” 

Shae placed the rest of her cake on the bench beside her, sucking icing from her fingertips. “To think. If they hadn't been afraid of him, they might have won.” 

Tyrion turned to her, frowning exaggeratedly. “You sound positively regretful about it!” 

“ _No_. I just think it's interesting.” 

Tyrion continued to look at her for a moment, feigning suspicion. “Anyway. Anyway, she had to reinvent the Targaryen image after the war. If you'd seen pictures of the family home before the war, it  _could_ be a palace. The walls--” 

“I think I've seen it,” Shae interrupted, “pictures I mean. We used it for set design reference when we did  _Antony and Cleopatra_.” She paused. “There were a lot of dragon statues.” 

“Yes. But after Aerys's death, she and Viserys – her surviving brother - had all these assets, but no money. And people thought they might be...  _unstable_ , like their father, so they weren't in any hurry to do business with them. They had to sell off most of their belongings, the house.” He sighed. “Viserys was the one making the decisions and, unfortunately, he was an idiot as well as a brute. But several years ago, he died and Daenerys stepped up. She changed the Targaryen image from arms dealing to philanthropy, she bought up companies, she helped re-establish Eidechstal's trade routes with other European countries.  _And_ she bought back the house that Viserys had been forced to sell.” 

Shae turned sideways on the bench, throwing her legs across Tyrion's lap. “Did you fuck her?” 

He twisted in his seat, eyes huge. “I  _beg_ your pardon?” 

She smiled wickedly at him, as if amused by the idea of his surprise deflecting her. “Did you? How long were you over there, exactly?” 

“Three years, in bits and pieces.” 

From 1927, Tyrion had spent a lot of time in Eidechstal. The scars of the war were still visible on the countryside, and they were still in a period of recession, but it was picturesque and the architecture was stunning. It was far enough to the north of Europe to benefit from the sprawling beauty of the Alps, without having to suffer too bitter a winter. It was there that Tyrion had met Daenerys. 

Tywin had initially doubted her value as a business associate – primarily because of her gender – and so had sent Tyrion. He suspected it had been meant as an insult, but if that were the case, it failed. Tyrion bonded with Daenerys over their complicated families and the assault of others' perceptions of them. It became very important, suddenly, to champion her worth. Tywin prioritised money, and useful business connections, and Tyrion appealed to those sensibilities to bring Daenerys to the table. Tywin had agreed, but made it clear that if Daenerys proved a waste of time, he would hold Tyrion accountable. 

“And since you asked so delicately...” Tyrion raised his eyebrows at Shae. “No, I did not fuck her. I  _admired_ her, and we both understand that desire to be taken seriously.” With no small tinge of pride, he added: “She actually offered me a job.” 

“Why didn't you take it?” 

“I'd have to move there.” He looked sideways at her, weighing his words. “There are certain things... keeping me here.” 

Her eyes seemed to touch every part of his face, and then she smiled at him, something private and fond. As he returned it, he became aware of the sound of a train pulling into the station. 

“Ah, this will be her.” 

Shae followed his line of sight, but did not yet move her legs. “I wonder, if I know something you don't. About Viserys.” 

Only half-listening as he scanned the windows of First Class, his tone was distracted as he answered: “Oh? What's that?” 

“They say Daenerys killed him.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh for goodness' sake,” Renly grumbled, “I really don't see what's so appealing about shooting.”
> 
> “ _Shooting_ is going to be the best part of this weekend,” Loras sighed, “who knows? If you're lucky you might even hit your brother.”
> 
> “Robert?” said Brienne, at the same time that Margaery said: “Stannis?”
> 
> Loras shrugged. “Either or.”

Summer had clung to England well into September, and though the bleaching sun had finally faded it was still surprisingly mild. The breeze had not yet deferred to the chafing autumn winds, and there had been very little rain to muddy the country in the past few weeks. Renly's deep blue Rolls-Royce wound through the Hertfordshire roads, sunlight flashing on the bonnet.

Renly kept the car in London to use when he and the Tyrells flew over from California – something he had been doing well over a year before his marriage – and he was relieved for an excuse to keep the top open as he drove from London to Stormsend. Renly was one of those people who got motion sickness even when he was driving, and the fresh air eased his stomach.

They had met up with Brienne upon landing and spent the night in the capital, and although they had teased her when she warned them not to drink too much, Renly was now grateful for her foresight. What with the bumpy, veering roads to cover, and the tension in his body, he didn't need a hangover causing greater upset to his system.

(“You can still cancel.”

Renly had looked up at Loras the night before, a beautiful portrait framed by the hotel window, resignation in his eyes. Something about it made Renly feel more indignant, the knowledge that his insecurities were so easy to read.

“What? I'm fine, I've told you I'm fine.”

“You look like you're off to your death, darling,” Margaery sighed. She was curled up on the sofa, head resting elegantly on her hand.

“Your eyes are shut, Margaery.”

“It's the same way you've been looking all night,” Brienne murmured. She was lying flat on her back on the hotel room carpet, arms splayed at her sides, as if she had recently been knocked down by a bus. She seemed caught up in some rumination of her own, eyes fixed on the ceiling but unseeing. Renly looked at her for a few moments, debating whether to ask her about it. He knew, though, that if she wanted to share something she would have done it by now.

“The longer we put it off, the worse it will be,” he said instead. “And you two-” he sat up straighter on the bed, pointing at Loras and Margaery in turn, “-haven't met Cersei. Do you know what she'd do if we snubbed her party?”

Brienne made a low gurgle.

“Exactly.”

Loras set his wine glass down on the windowsill and joined Renly on the bed. “But she didn't even want us there,” Loras said, gently, reasonably, as he settled against Renly's side. “You told me your brother got into a screaming match with her just so you'd get an invite.”

“ _Yes_ , so if I then didn't bother to go, _we_ -” Renly gestured emphatically at all of them, “-would be hunted instead of the pheasants.”

“I think we're going to have a surprising amount of fun,” Margaery said brightly, eyes open now.

“Then you must know something we don't.”)

There was a rummaging sound in the back of the car, which Renly realised was Brienne crossing and uncrossing her legs.

“There's no space back here,” she muttered, pushing herself up in her seat.

“Well, maybe you should've taken another car,” Loras suggested.

Brienne placed one of her feet on the back of Loras's seat and pushed forward.

“Hey!” Loras flailed around in an attempt to get at her, and nearly elbowed Renly in the face.

“Knock it off! The pair of you! Jesus Christ.” He shook his head, and he wondered if this what it was like to have children. “I've got another forty-five minutes of this.”

Brienne was one of his closest friends, and fortunately for him, she and Loras got on... for the most part. Still, even though Brienne was often disciplined, professional, she had an underlying fiery temperament which Loras had a habit of provoking. Loras often gave his suspicion that Brienne was only jealous; she and Renly had been engaged once, more a matter of proximity he thought. So many engagements in their circle were business transactions, and he thought he could do a lot worse than entering one with a friend.

But it had come to a point where he had to face that she did, in fact, love him. Ashamed as he was to admit it, if it had been someone else, he might have gone through with the wedding to dispel rumours about himself. But he couldn't do that to Brienne and in a moment of hysteria, he had told her the full truth of it. He had expected that to be the last time he heard from her, but after a couple of weeks of polite distance, she had returned to his side as his friend. He had cherished her far more dearly for that.

He was almost certain she had moved on by now. Actually, he was convinced her bickering with Loras had far less to do with jealousy than Loras's sublime gift of irritating people.

“Will you be shooting, Brienne?” Margaery asked, “you could probably outdo Loras.”

“Just because she beat me in one fight--”

“It's not really my thing,” Brienne replied, “he'll have to beat Jaime instead.”

“Jaime's not as good as he used to be, though,” Renly pointed out. “All that nerve damage in his hand ruined his timing.”

“Nerve damage?” Loras asked.

“War injury.”

“He's got much better, actually,” Brienne said, “he's been practising with his left hand.”

“Oh for goodness' sake,” Renly grumbled, “I really don't see what's so appealing about shooting.”

“ _Shooting_ is going to be the best part of this weekend,” Loras sighed, “who knows? If you're lucky you might even hit your brother.”

“Robert?” said Brienne, at the same time that Margaery said: “Stannis?”

Loras shrugged. “Either or.”

Renly laughed before he could stop himself. “Stannis is... He's not coming.”

“Oh really? What a shame.”

“Wait-” Margaery put her head up by Renly's shoulder, “-you've been fretting about seeing Stannis for weeks. You might've told me.”

“I haven't been _fret_ \-- I only found out this morning.” Renly grunted as the car went over a bump. “Got a very short call from Robert.”

“He's not staying away because of us, surely?” Margaery asked, leaning back.

“No, apparently Selyse found out about his mistress. So it's all gone a tad apocalyptic at his house.”

“Well, he wasn't exactly hiding it, was he?” Brienne said. “I used to think Melisandre _was_ his wife.”

Loras snorted. “He parades her all over the place, but he tells you off for marrying an actress?”

Renly looked over at him, surprised at his obliviousness, and swallowed. “He doesn't _really_ care that I married an actress. But Stannis would never talk about what the real problem is.”

For the next few minutes, the car was silent. Beside the road, the fields billowed and a flock of birds shot up into the cloudy sky.

 

There had always been distinct layers of separation between the Baratheon brothers, and each of them possessed qualities that both greatly attracted and repelled. Robert had been strong, physically and in fortitude, a formidable athlete in his youth and because of this he inspired a following with like-minded men, who made idolatry of masculinity. His outspoken nature impressed some – friends and lovers alike – but his lack of patience for others feelings also drove them away. He grew more brutish as he aged, resented the drink slowing him down, and it was harder to ignore his violent streak. He had never seen it with his own eyes, but Renly suspected him of hitting Cersei from time to time. It wasn't so much Cersei's behaviour that made him think this – she was far too stoic – but the servants. When Robert grew irritable, the tension rose uncomfortably amongst them.

Where Robert burned hot, Stannis ran distinctly cold. He had been a ruthlessly efficient soldier – seemed oddly comfortable in war, in fact – and people found that composure and focus charismatic. He had aged handsomely, ran his house well, and secured many life-long loyalties. But Stannis was emotionally unattainable; his marriage had been loveless almost from the first, and he rarely acknowledged the source of problems in his relationships, particularly when it was himself.

Renly tried to be considerate, to be loyal, and he was – he thought - quite witty. While he didn't command the level of attention his brothers did, he had never been exactly unpopular. Yet, he knew he fell short of what a man should be in his brothers' eyes. Robert teased him about being a homosexual long before any evidence emerged that it might be true, and Renly didn't have strength like Loras to avoid suspicion. Fighting made him uncomfortable, he had never cared much for sports, and he had a weak stomach. The contrast of Robert and Stannis's temperaments had never afforded much affection, but it felt as though there was a greater gulf between himself and them. They looked at him as something they did not understand.

The Baratheons had always been a military family, and Stormsend Castle was a fitting seat for the current Earl. With its uniform windows and square friezes accentuated by the shifting shadows, and thorny turrets grasping at the sky, it had always driven home the fact for Renly that he was raised in a fortress. Dread started to roll over him as he peeled off the main road and onto the half-mile castle drive, and he wasn't sure if he had notably tensed or if it was instinct, but Loras put his hand on his knee and squeezed. Renly glanced over at him, and Loras's smile was gentle, so meant for him alone, that he took courage from it. Charade or no, at least Loras was here.

Eventually, the stark trees fanned back and the castle rose before them. By the time they came to a stop, Cersei and Robert were waiting on the front steps, Myrcella and Tommen stood between them like a buffer. Loras had removed his hand from Renly's knee before it could be seen, and wisely so, as Robert's gaze was uncomfortably direct. There was a quirk to his mouth, almost like a smile, but Renly knew better than to relax. Turning up with a wife would not guard Loras and himself against suspicion.

“You took long enough to get here. Still a slow bloody driver?”

Renly made a face and hoped it looked more like a smile than a grimace. “At least I still have my car. How many have you crashed in the last two years? Three? Four?”

“Four,” Cersei confirmed, primly.

“If I wanted to look at the scenery, woman, I'd get a bicycle,” Robert said with disgust, “man's meant to go fast.”

Renly caught sight of Brienne's face, unnoticed by Robert, locked in such comical distaste that he nearly started laughing.

Likely sensing trouble building, Margaery drifted forward, standing close against Renly's side. “It's so lovely to finally meet you,” she said, beaming at Robert and Cersei. “Renly's said wonderful things about your house.” She made it sound so utterly plausible, that even Robert looked taken aback. Hollywood, Renly thought, didn't understand the depths of Margaery's talent.

“Allow me to introduce my wife, Margaery,” he said, trying to share some of her enthusiasm. “And this is her brother, Loras.” Renly turned to indicate him, and briefly noticed the tight look on Loras's face before he concealed it with a smile. Renly felt his stomach tilt slightly.

Once inside, their voices and footsteps echoed in a way that reminded Renly strangely of a hospital. And although he was genuinely happy to see his Myrcella and Tommen again, he could already feel his body start to tense. He thought longingly of the Mediterranean-revival mansion he shared with Margaery and Loras in Encino, filled with the sharp and heady scent of nearby eucalyptus, the golden sunlight soaking the tiles and ripples from the swimming pool reflected on the walls. He looked up at the portraits of their ancestors over the staircase, like rows of grim sentinels, and wondered what on earth he was doing here.

Loras was busy being harassed by Robert about his shooting prowess, and Cersei was bragging about some redecoration to Brienne, so it surprised Renly when Margaery suddenly gripped his arm. “That's the brother, isn't it?”

Renly followed her line of sight to the gallery, and noticed Jaime lurking between the pillars, a handsome look of disquiet on his face. It seemed to Renly that, any time you might freeze Jaime in place he would be posing. He looked like a figurine of a soldier missing his gun and his uniform.

 _The brother_. Jaime was often referenced in this fashion. Although, Cersei had two brothers of equal fame for different reasons, so Renly had always found that bizarre. It didn't help that Tyrion was often referred to as the _other_ brother _._

“Yes.”

“Pretty family.” She glanced over her shoulder, and dropped her voice to a ghostly whisper. There was still a hint of glee audible in it. “Do you think it's true? The rumour about them?”

Renly looked back at Jaime, and traced his gaze to where Cersei walked with Brienne.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and turned away. “I wouldn't put anything past them.”

 

~*~

 

“Are you going to be sick?” Robb asked, breaking a silence that had permeated for some fifteen minutes.

Jon had been gazing out of the train window, but he turned upon realising the question had been directed at him. “Am I what?” he asked, frowning.

“You're making that... face.” Robb pressed his lips together and drew his brows up in a look of pained despair. Jon understood this – from experience - to be an impression of him. Robb dissolved into a grin.

“I'm not making a face,” Jon muttered, folding his arms and turning his body slightly toward the window.

“You're making it more now,” piped Arya, sitting opposite. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter.”

The silence returned for a few seconds, and then Robb asked: “You didn't really want to stay home, did you?”

Jon sighed and forced himself to sit back properly, but kept his gaze on the scenery rolling past. “Sometimes it's just easier.”

Jon's illegitimacy had meant a life balanced on a double-edged sword. To be left out of things was hurtful, like being physically erased from view. Yet, when the alternative was to be included, he found he was impossible to ignore, like an exposed nail in a floorboard. He was lucky, he knew, to not have ended up in an orphanage, or died on the street, or be banished to some nameless spot in the world. His life was comfortable, his cousins cherished him as a brother, and though he would not inherit any property he would have income for the rest of his life. His uncle had seen to that.

But it was precisely that privileged setting that made his existence such a transgression. Childbirth had claimed Lyanna's life and she had died in disgrace, an unmarried mother by some nameless bounder. She had been somewhat unruly in youth, but her family thought that upon reaching adulthood she would finally slow down. This wasn't to be so. They knew very little of her friends, and of her admirers less so. Unfamiliar men had often appeared at the Starks' estate at Winterfell Park, causing growing bewilderment and concern. To one familiar suitor, it caused fury.

“Robert wouldn't say anything to you in front of Father,” Robb insisted, “and if he knows what's good for him, he won't say it in front of me either.” A darkness had come over his handsome features, heralding the protective fury of his Tully blood. Jon couldn't help but smile to himself.

Since they were boys, Robb had shielded him from the censure of those who found a bastard's presence so objectionable. He had doubtless taken that cue from his father, who had to constantly defend his choice to act as Jon's guardian. Why - so many people had asked - should Eddard's honour be tainted by Lyanna's sins? Yet, he did not look at his sister this way. It was harder, however, to combat Robert's disapproval. To him, Jon was a constant reminder of what he was denied.

Robert had become as installed as a ghost in his haunting of Winterfell, trying to get Lyanna to accompany him here and there. They had been fairly close at one time, but once it became apparent to Lyanna that Robert meant to marry her, she began to establish a distance. Rejection, sadly, did not sit well with a man like Robert. He would sometimes turn up drunk at Winterfell, hanging around in the hopes of encountering a “rival” for him to fight. Catelyn and Benjen tried to force him out, but Ned's sympathy endured enough to maintain his friendship.

Robert tolerated Jon's presence only out of loyalty to Ned, but that tolerance was thin.

“He doesn't need to say anything. You've seen the way he looks at me.”

“He should mind his own business,” Sansa said, her words polite but tone icy. “I don't see what right he has to look down on you.”

“Well, must be difficult when your wife is sleeping with her brother,” Arya mused.

There was an explosion of objection, like the radio suddenly being turned on.

“ _Arya._ ”

“Oh my God.”

“ _What?_ ” Arya threw up her hands, defensive. “It wasn't me who said it.”

“You _just_ said it!” Jon pointed out, his voice alarmingly high.

“I mean _I_ didn't make it up. Come on you must've heard it before!”

Jon and Robb shared a sheepish look, but neither seemed ready to volunteer their agreement.

Sansa took a deep breath. “Just because Cersei and Jaime are close-”

“ _Veeeery_ close.”

“-doesn't mean-”

“Intimate.”

“ _Doesn't mean_ they're... I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you.”

“All I'm saying is, her children are very blonde.”

Jon leaned forward in his seat. “That's your damning evidence? Her children have blonde hair?”

Arya frowned, and looked as if she were trying to scrape together a rebuttal.

After what seemed like audible hesitation, Sansa admitted: “I did see her go into Jaime's room once, after dark.” She glanced uncertainly between the others.

Robb opened his mouth to say something, and then didn't.

Jon grimaced as he weakly volunteered: “ _Nightmares_?”

 

~*~

 

A light rain had come and gone almost instantly, dewing the gardens of Stormsend and dusting the windows with fine raindrops. In the stables, the horses fussed their manes and pawed at the ground, as if anticipating a building storm. Behind the bulk of the estate, the grey clouds were cracking to reveal sunlight again like a broken window.

Below stairs was like an anthill crawling with life, the tight corridors echoing with gossip, curses and footsteps. It had been a while since Ygritte had worked in a house of this size, but it was no less claustrophobic. She was also afraid to stand still for two seconds; Mrs. Mordane, the housekeeper, was so focused on ensuring there was nothing for Cersei to complain about, that she was seizing random servants to repeat pointless checks on any room not occupied by the guests.

As she passed the ironing room, Ygritte overheard an exchange between two maids that made her pause.

“... _are_ here, that's what I'm saying! They arrived half an hour ago.”

“What does Loras look like? I mean, is he as handsome in--?”

“I didn't get a proper look at him. Lord Robert was in the way. But I did see Margaery. She is _so_ beautiful.”

“Do you think so? I always thought she was a bit...”

“What?”

“ _Well_. Stuck up.”

“What does that have to do with her being beautiful?”

The hinges of the door to the room groaned as Ygritte pushed it open, sticking her head in.

“Hey,” she called abruptly, “have the Starks arrived yet?”

The two maids looked her up and down reprovingly, either offended at the interruption or at Ygritte's familiarity despite being the new girl. The pressure of serving under such a tempestuous family had packed the servants together as a group, and therefore not many of them trusted outsiders. New blood was more likely to make mistakes, which stood to get them all in trouble.

“Not yet,” said the maid on the right. Her name might have been Lucy, or Beryl. She narrowed her grey eyes. “Shouldn't you be doing something?”

“Shouldn't you be ironing?” Ygritte retorted sharply, jerking her head at where Lucy-or-Beryl's iron was beginning to smoke on the clean, white sheet.

“Oh _shit, sh-_ ”

Ygritte grinned as she retreated into the corridor, closing the door. As she turned, she almost walked straight into Mrs. Mordane.

“Goodness me.” She dusted off her dress, even though Ygritte was not shedding dirt of any kind, and then clasped her hands in front of her. “Ygritte, I hope you're not _too_ busy at the moment.”

“Well, I was j-”

“Because I need you to go upstairs and ensure Miss Targaryen's room has enough firewood. Apparently, she enjoys a _particularly_ warm room and we don't want to be hauling more up there in the middle of the night.” She smiled tightly, indicating the conversation was over.

Ygritte pressed her lips together and nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Mordane.” She turned sharply and screwed her face up as she walked, childishly satisfied that Mrs. Mordane couldn't see it.

The staircase up to the house creaked like old bones as Ygritte climbed, and her eyes drifted to small blooms of damp on the walls, neat cracks spidering out. There would be nothing like this upstairs, Ygritte thought, even if she searched every room.

Crossing the entrance hall, Ygritte paused with one foot on the stair as she listened to the distant chatter of the Baratheons and their guests. Robert was the most audible, booming and grating, currently in the midst of some complaint about his female factory workers. _No sense of humour!_ she thought she heard him say. Curling her lip in disgust, she carried on up the main staircase and headed toward the Blue Room, which had been picked out for Daenerys.

As she padded along the corridor, the door to Robert and Cersei's room opened and she paused. The butler, Mr. Varys emerged, and he stalled in his motion when he saw Ygritte, apparently surprised to find her there.

“Ygritte,” he acknowledged. He glanced over his shoulder into the room, before closing the door soundlessly. When he turned back to her, his expression was relaxed, almost on the point of smiling, as it often was. “Avoiding Mrs. Mordane?”

“Not possible,” she replied, sighing, “she wants me to check there's enough _firewood_ in Miss Targaryen's room.”

“Ah yes, I heard of that peculiarity. Poor circulation, perhaps?” He tilted his head, giving Ygritte a calculating look. She made herself stand firmly, meeting his eyes. Mr. Varys had uncanny instincts for trouble, for secrets, and Ygritte didn't know what he might discern from her. Finally, he sighed and shook his head. “You had best get on with it. Miss Targaryen has just arrived with Lord Tyrion.”

He breezed past her, moving almost silently along the corridor, and Ygritte sent after him a belated: “Yes, Mr. Varys.”

As she continued to Daenerys's room, she wondered what Varys had been doing up here. Of course, he likely had a multitude of justifications for such a thing, and he didn't really have to answer to anyone but the family. Only, Ygritte thought, he had seemed almost regretful to run into her.

The Blue Room was a corner bedroom, its walls sheathed in deep blue, damask wallpaper. The solid oak of the four-poster bed was polished to a sheen, the bedclothes pulled taut and decorated with blue flowers that Ygritte couldn't identify. Since Daenerys was a potential business partner of Cersei's father and Robert, the room had likely been chosen to impress upon her the beauty of the house. It was a choice of vanity, though, and not meant purely for Daenerys's enjoyment. From what Ygritte had heard, the Targaryen house in Eidechstal had been remodelled to extravagance, and Stormsend's old school glamour would have to compete with the new.

There was plenty of firewood in the room, but Ygritte was in no hurry to go back downstairs. Glancing down the hall to ensure it was empty, she closed the door and took off her shoes. Even through her stockings, she could feel the plushness of the carpet, and it eased the ache in her feet that had come from running around since the early hours. She went to the wardrobe and opened it carefully, trailing her fingers over the silks and linens. She heard that Cersei had bought new clothes in the run-up to the weekend, probably to outshine Catelyn Stark and Daenerys. How depressing it had to be, Ygritte thought, to have parties and dresses be your only currency, while your husband – who paraded his adultery around town – could make money as he pleased.

Ygritte perched on the bed and looked out of the window. She had been getting ahead of herself, she realised. It might be another two hours before the Starks arrived, coming as they were from the north. She took a deep breath, imagined the calm rolling from her head to her toes. There was no need to panic - there would still be plenty of time.

The door opened and Ygritte bounced up from the bed as if she had been burned. She had seen a photograph of Daenerys Targaryen only once, but it was enough to identify her. Daenerys paused in the doorway, assessing Ygritte.

“Hello,” she said finally. “Is there a problem?” Ygritte had never heard someone from Eidechstal speak before, but the accent was somewhere between German and Dutch.

“Beg your pardon, Miss. I just came to make sure you had enough firewood.” Ygritte inclined her head at the fireplace. “We heard you prefer... a warmer room.”

Daenerys raised her eyebrows slightly, as if unsure how that information had been passed on, but smiled. “Thank you. You truly _are_ well-informed here.” There was something about the way she said it that made it seem Daenerys was reflecting on something else. Some comment of Cersei or Robert's most likely, but Ygritte had no idea what.

Abruptly, Daenerys glanced down, and when Ygritte followed her line of sight, she realised her shoes were still lying on the carpet. Grimacing, she jolted towards them.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Miss. I just had to take them off for a moment – my feet were aching.” She didn't honestly care about offending Daenerys – her feet weren't diseased, after all – but if Daenerys complained, she could be sacked. And that would be a dreadful waste of the time and energy given to get this job.

Though, Daenerys didn't look angry, Ygritte noted, merely curious. She was prettier than her photograph, too. Her bob of white-blonde hair made her look a little like Jean Harlow, and the peaked shoulders of her suit gave her a powerful figure despite her size.

“Don't worry about it,” she insisted, “I just remembered that I left my cigarettes in my coat.” She opened the wardrobe and fished a crumpled packet out of a chocolate brown fur. The writing on the pack was in German, and it had the picture of a three-headed dragon on the front, like the one on the Eidechstal flag.

“Why does it have three heads?” Ygritte asked, walking closer, her concerns about getting in trouble forgotten. Daenerys frowned in confusion, and Ygritte nodded at the cigarette packet. “The flag. I've always wondered.”

“Hmm.” Daenerys smiled slightly. “There's a legend about how, many centuries ago, dragons used to live in Eidechstal. And that in Medieval times, the royal siblings found the last three dragons, and rode them.” She tapped the dragon. “Three dragons, three siblings - three heads.”

Ygritte's mouth formed an 'O' of understanding. “What happened to the dragons?” She asked, and then shifted slightly when she realised how silly that sounded. “I mean, in the story.”

“They were shot down, by usurpers of the crown. And the siblings were assassinated.” Daenerys shrugged, as if at the senselessness of it all. “The second part is definitely true. Other people interpret it as the siblings were the, the--” She visibly searched for the word. “The souls? Of the last dragons, rather than riding them. And in killing them, the usurpers wounded the heart of the country.”

Ygritte blinked. “That's a cheerful story.”

Daenerys laughed. “Yes. And believe me, when you grow up in my country, you hear it a thousand times.” She looked at the pack, considering, and then – after taking out one cigarette – held it out to Ygritte. “Here.”

Ygritte took them hesitantly, eyebrows raised as she processed it. “Are you sure?” They were far nicer cigarettes than she could afford.

“Yes. A souvenir.” Daenerys started to head for the door, and then half-turned toward Ygritte. Her face was quite serious now, her voice lower. “If you decide you're tired of working for a man like Robert Baratheon, let me know. I could find a place for you in Eidechstal.” She pointed her head at the cigarettes. “Then you could get your own.”

A job? Was Daenerys honestly offering her a job? (Or, another part of her wondered, was it another kind of proposition?)

Unable to address it all properly, she merely said: “Thank you, Miss.”

Daenerys smiled, something sweet and brilliant. On her way out, she said: “Don't forget your shoes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a little longer as I was finishing my Braime oneshot, but I hope you enjoyed it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night was stealing in as they approached Stormsend, the sky a deep blue smeared with charcoal clouds. Sansa stared out of the window and made herself think of the people she wanted to see - Brienne and Tyrion, the mysterious Tyrells. And she reminded herself that she had pledged to walk in there, head held high, refusing to crumble in front of Joffrey or Cersei.
> 
> Let him see, she thought, that I am just fine without his hand. God knows where it's been.

Daenerys had never cared much for tea, especially not how the English took it – bland and made more so by milk, looking like a puddle of clay water. She preferred it black, bursting with spices and tangy with fruit. But she sipped it politely, lips pressed so tightly against the china that it left the signature of her lipstick.

Robert was talking, talking, talking, and she was wondering how much she could drown out and still be an effective element in their business discussions. Tyrion had warned her, to his credit, that Robert was loud, crass, insufferable. He had warned her of Cersei's sharp tongue and Tywin's stony disdain. She had believed she could handle it; she had dealt with plenty of men who decried a woman's place at the head of a company, dealt with women who seemed to know every detail of her family's decline and sought to lacerate her with it. Women were not strong enough to head a company, but apparently she was also not soft enough for their tastes, because she did not defer to them or swoon at their harassment.

Truly, she had dealt with worse. But what bristled her was that  _ she _ had made all the effort, traveled all this way, as if she were humbly seeking their approval. There were – to her initial surprise – two film stars present – the Tyrell siblings. What if she was just another curiosity, like them? A scandalous connection to liven the party?

She wasn't sure how far she trusted Tyrion's intentions, either. It was clear that Tywin had little respect for his younger son, a fact that Tyrion had underplayed to Daenerys. It was possible he was desperate for any way to get into his father's good books, and if she came up short he could very well turn on her. He had been very agreeable so far, but she knew from experience that men could turn on a woman in a second if they felt slighted.

“I thought you should know that you're glaring at Lord Baratheon,” Missandei said under her breath, head tilted casually toward Daenerys. Her lip was curved in a partially suppressed smile.

“Can't imagine how that happened,” Daenerys muttered. She tested the muscles in her face, blinked. “Am I still doing it?”

Missandei squinted at her. “N...o. No. It passes for intrigued, now.”

She smiled conspiratorially and Daenerys grinned back. She was profoundly grateful that she has managed to bring Missandei along; any situation was improved by her presence, but this trip would've been downright intolerable. Missandei had once worked in financial administration for the Targaryen company, and came to Daenerys personally when she suspected male colleagues of fiddling expenses. She had turned out to be wildly overqualified for an admin assistant – no great surprise, being a woman of colour – and so Daenerys had promoted her, initially to her personal assistant and then eventually to chief financial officer.

Missandei's installation as CFO had resulted in a lot of employees walking out. It didn't make much of a difference; on the contrary, it had been akin to giving the company a deep clean. Since Missandei blew the whistle on the expenses fraud, she and Daenerys had shared a close, loyal friendship. And on a few occasions – until Missandei met her fiance last July – shared more than that.

“...Don't get me wrong,” Robert was saying now, “it's impressive seeing a woman take charge of a company, turning it around. Not that there was anyone else to do it with your father and brothers dead.” He chuckled roughly, and Daenerys saw Tyrion roll his eyes. “And it would've been more impressive if you could have maintained its original purpose.”

Daenerys took a deep breath, pulling it tightly into her chest and letting it out of her nose. “Lord Baratheon, given the political climate of Europe after the war, and the public knowledge of my father's allyship with Germany, I hardly think it possible or  _ proper _ to have kept Targaryen Corp. as an instrument of war.”

“It would be perfectly possible,” Tywin said curtly. “Reinventing the image of the company may have been necessary, but not its purpose. Discretion would be needed, certainly. But so long as it was clear that Targaryen Corp. supported the right people after the war, you could have continued to manufacture weapons.”

Daenerys smiled tightly. “The right people? Suppose then, we supplied arms to the French? The Americans? Britain has fought with both in the past, who's to say you wouldn't do so again?”

“Well-”

“I'm sure by right people, Lord Lannister meant the British,” Missandei said politely, as if she was helpfully explaining to Daenerys alone. “But then, very few people have a worse record for invasion than the British.” She smiled at Tywin. “I don't think Ms. Targaryen would want her company to be on the wrong side of history again if you're finally held accountable for war crimes.”

The tall blonde woman – Daenerys believed her name was Brienne – stifled a sound that could've been a choke or a laugh, her cup clattering in its saucer. Tyrion had a hand over his mouth, and his eyes were slightly glazed. Daenerys imagined his life was probably flashing in front of him. When she turned to Robert he looked positively incensed, so much so that she instinctively placed a hand on Missandei's arm.

“Do  _ you _ really think--” he started.

“I'm going to be in a film about the war next year!” Margaery interrupted suddenly. They all turned to look at her, and after a moment she had a perfectly easy smile on her face. “Very inaccurate, I'm sure, in terms of battles and so forth. But it's a charming romance, although I'm not even sure who's going to be my leading man yet!”

“I thought it was Herbert Marshall?” Loras said. His voice was steady but he was looking very deliberately at Margaery.

Margaery lifted her shoulders and sighed. “I don't think so. That was just talk.”

For several minutes, the Tyrell siblings successfully sailed the conversation out of treacherous waters, dropping names here and there for added effect. Daenerys exchanged a look with Missandei, who had a guilty smile, and nudged her approvingly.

“Well, I think Ms. Targaryen is very fortunate,” Cersei was saying, and Daenerys looked over at her in surprise. “She has managed to salvage her father's company from ruin. Not everyone is in a position to do that.”

It seemed at first to be a genuine compliment, if a slightly backhanded one. But then Daenerys noticed how Cersei slid her eyes at Brienne, and the latter's face was slack with shock. Daenerys didn't know this woman's circumstances, but she could determine that it was Brienne Cersei had meant to injure.

Jaime was speaking now, and then Margaery again, but Daenerys' anger tuned it out.

She wanted to step in, stand up for Brienne in some way, but she didn't know enough to do so. She would probably just embarrass the woman more, or even offend her. She caught Tyrion's eyes and nodded to him, before getting up and walking to a sofa near the window, carrying her cup of clay water. He sat down next to her, and she turned her head as if she was looking out the window behind them, admiring the gardens.

“Why did you bring me to this hellish family reunion?” she hissed.

“It's actually going quite well so far,” Tyrion replied, voice light, but he could well have been joking. “Anyway, I didn't realise the pair of you would be quite so confrontational.”

Daenerys turned to him slowly, eyes hard and unblinking. “Would you prefer we were silent and demure?”

“No. No, of course not,” Tyrion replied hurriedly, acknowledging the fire in her expression. “I'm just saying that if you do want to do business with Robert and my father, you're going to have to exercise a little patience.”

Daenerys was silent for a moment, gaze drifting between Robert and Tywin. Patience had never come easily to her, and she was a fighter by nature. But she knew that if the company was going to stay afloat, she was going to have to rein herself in a little.

Without thinking she took a mouthful of tea, which was now cold. “Urgh.” She set her cup and saucer on a nearby table. “All right. I'll try, but they had better watch their mouths, especially around Missandei. If Margaery hadn't interrupted, I may well have killed Robert.”

~*~

The billiards room was one of the few downstairs rooms free from the scrutiny of Robert's ancestors – by way of their paintings – and that was of Robert's design. He wasn't particularly well-versed at billiards – it was too deliberate and quiet a game for his patience – but apparently it was a room he commonly took to in order to get some space from Cersei. As it had remained untouched throughout Cersei's decorative changes, the room offered a glimpse at the more austere, masculine décor which had once been more prevalent throughout the castle. However, there once had been paintings in the room, but Robert had had them removed after a drunken tantrum, insisting he was tired of them staring at him. He had actually broken one across the billiard table.

One of the more notable decorations were the sporting trophies won by the Baratheons over the years, which were displayed in a long, polished cabinet that spanned one wall. There were a few bookshelves set into the cabinet, but unlike the trophies – which Robert routinely took out to consider in maudlin or nostalgic moments – the books had not been disturbed in decades. The other decorations of note were trophies of a different sort; opposite the cabinet, in rows across the upper wall, were many stuffed deer heads. They ranged in size and colour, but their soulless, sightless eyes were the same. At night, played by artificial light, their antlers cast unnerving shadows, like veins branching across the red wallpaper.

Brienne stared at them in morbid fascination from the other side of the billiards table, and felt a peculiar sense of empathy. She had never been in the room, but now she employed it as Robert did – to get some space from Cersei. Until Eddard Stark's poor nephew got there, hers was the blood in the water. She felt out of place at most old money gatherings, but none so much as when Cersei and Tywin Lannister were present. Brienne wasn't ashamed of her family's income – a flimsy sum compared to the riches of the Lannisters – but it was hard to keep her temper when she knew that, in looking down on Brienne, they were truly looking down on her father.

The Tarth name used to be synonymous with affluence, conveying even a vision of royalty. They were old money - initially dealing in art - but from the early 19 th century until very nearly the 20 th , it had been an extremely successful jewellery company. Their pieces were amongst the most sought-after by the elite in Britain, Europe and even North America. To have Tarth's vivid, signature sapphires glittering on your chest was not just an expression of wealth, but of fashion. Even Queen Mary had a jewellery box in her possession, inlaid with Tarth sapphires, crafted specifically for her.

However, Brienne's father, Selwyn, did not have the same instinct for business that his predecessors had had. The company had been a tight-knit one for decades, avoiding connections with anyone not part of the family – by blood or marriage – save those that were absolutely necessary for it to function. Yet, when Selwyn took over, he made an effort to embrace partnerships with those who had been knocking on Tarth's doors all those years. Admitting outsiders was not an inherently flawed decision, but bad people came along with the good, and soon Tarth and Sons was losing money. By 1901, poor trade negotiations and several instances of embezzlement had eaten into both the Tarth's fortune and name, and the whiff of scandal meant no one flocked to their stores any longer. A Tarth sapphire was seen no longer a status symbol, but a cursed object.

By the time Brienne was born, her inheritance was nothing compared to what her father's had been. Through selling some of the family's more pricey antiques, a home on the Côte d'Azur, and introducing pieces to the stores that were affordable to the middle class, Selwyn had managed to keep the family seat in Devon. Most spare money went to the handful of servants, and keeping horses and decent clothes for his young daughter. He knew that her best option was to marry well – as well as was  _ possible _ , given her dowry - and so he ensured that she was well-dressed, and well-educated.

When her engagement with Renly had fallen through, it had almost caused a rift between them. To cover for Renly, she had insisted the separation was mutual, and Selwyn's concern for her future made him impatient. Not only was her inheritance paltry for their social circle, she had always been an object of mockery for her lack of femininity. Some had even expressed to Selwyn that there was something wrong with her, and if he had been a stricter father then she would act “as a woman should”. She had received some attention from suitors over the years, but it was either because they had ambitions to resurrect the Tarth fortune, or because they were morbidly curious. She had made an effort to frighten them all off.

The stock market crashes of 1929 brought Tarth and Sons to its lowest yet, and Brienne forced Selwyn – who was now in poor health – to stop thinking of her and think of himself. That he was still not safe from Cersei and Tywin's barbs sickened Brienne. When you are already so far above someone, what more do you have to gain by spitting down on them?

Nearest the windows – almost floor to ceiling and pouring with ivory sunlight – was a darts board. Brienne scooped the darts into her hand and stepped back, sending the first one hurtling at the outer bull. It stuck at an angle, and she took a deep breath before throwing the second, channelling her anger more accurately into the throw. It hit the bullseye with a satisfying thud.

“Are you picturing my sister's face?”

Brienne half-turned to see Jaime, closing the door behind him before he crossed the room. He smiled at her, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

She sighed and turned back to the board. “There's room for your father, too.” And others, she thought darkly.

The next one hit the bullseye again, flush with the second dart.

“I think you might have to get in line to throw darts at my father.”

Brienne turned abruptly with a dart still raised in her hand, and Jaime took a hurried step backward, hand raised. She looked at the dart and rolled her eyes, then spun it around, pointing the flight at Jaime instead.

“Your father-” she said, stepping forward, her words like darts themselves, “-loves to remind people how the Lannisters pay their debts. But a good deal of your fortune came from business with  _ my _ family. My grandfather vouched for yours when his partners didn't want to get into bed with a Lannister. What of that debt?”

Any semblance of a smile had faded from Jaime's face now, and he sighed. The action traveled from his head almost to his feet. She could see quiet anger vibrating in him, but it wasn't aimed at her.

“I'm afraid he takes the concept of debt rather literally. He doesn't consider your father's...” he faltered, probably at the fury brewing on Brienne's face, “... _ circumstances _ to be his concern.”

Brienne bunched the two remaining darts into her fist, felt anger giving way to the urge to cry. She forced it down, pulling in an unsteady breath. “Does that mean he has to kick my father when he's down? Is that honourable?”

Jaime took her hand and carefully removed the darts from it, placing them on the billiard table. “Of course not.” He reached up with his spare hand and cupped her cheek, and she found herself leaning into it, desperate for affection after so much disdain. She placed her hand tightly over his, keeping it there.

He did smile then, a tender, guileless smile she had not seen him give to anyone else the whole time since she had arrived. It bloomed something in her chest, a feeling only he could put there. And when he leaned up to kiss her she clasped him tightly to her, breathing in the scent of him, savouring the warm fit of his body against hers.

How long had it been since she had been able to touch him, or even see his face? Nearly a fortnight, it must've been, but longer, it seemed to her. She had to be content with  _ phone calls _ . Masquerading as idiotic men to escape the notice of his sister and father.

Jaime's breath had gone shallow, his lips parting to tease hers open. She felt the urgency rising in her body, an ache for his tongue and his hands on her. Perhaps if they locked the door...

But she broke the kiss, stroking his hand to placate him. It wouldn't do to give in here – there was too much risk of someone walking in. It was possible that she wouldn't be missed, but sooner or later one of the Lannisters would come looking for Jaime. Just being here alone with him would be enough to raise eyebrows.

He pressed his forehead against hers, and she closed her eyes, relishing the closeness, imagining the rest of the house and its inhabitants folding away.

“I've missed you,” he murmured.

She let that sink in a moment, tried to take comfort from it. “I missed you too,” she replied, finally, but it didn't sound as earnest to her. She  _ had _ missed him, of course, more than she could stomach, but their being apart came from Jaime's decisions. So to hear him say that tightened a frustration in her. She didn't want to argue, not when they were finally this close again, but the words were dying to leap off her tongue.

“And just... ignore Cersei.” He didn't sound like he found that plausible himself, but he continued anyway. “Joffrey got her all riled up.”

Brienne frowned, tilting her head back to look at him. “He's not even here.” That fact had been a small relief to her when she had arrived.

“That's the problem.” Jaime gave her a look that suggested he didn't understand it either, shrugging slightly. “He'd rather be off with his university friends, sharing their one brain cell.”

Brienne couldn't muster up the sympathy for Cersei, no matter how she tried. And she wasn't really trying. “Just as well.” She broke away from Jaime, feeling his hands leave her reluctantly. She pushed down the urge to go back to them, and went to pluck the darts from the board, putting them away so she would have a reason not to look at him. “Sansa doesn't need him hanging around when she gets here.”

“Well, Sansa's a strong young woman. I'm sure she's over him by now.”

Brienne scoffed and looked hard at him. He could be fantastically ignorant, sometimes. He did not understand, truly understand, how vulnerable women were forced to make themselves in their society. “It's not easy being strung along like that.” The words burst out of her before she could check the emotion in them.

Jaime looked at her silently for a moment. “Do you...” He narrowed his eyes at her, his voice faint with disbelief. “Is that what you think I'm  _ doing? _ Stringing you along?”

“Since November, Jaime. Jesus!” She nearly flinched at the volume of her voice, the way it echoed in the room. Even now she was mindful of someone overhearing, and when she spoke again it was quieter, but no less anxious. “It's been nearly a year, and we're no closer to getting married. I can't even tell anyone. And I've tried-- I've  _ been _ patient, because I knew you were afraid-”

“Yes!” he nodded sharply, stepped toward her. “I am afraid. Of what my father will do to you.”

“Oh! Don't be melodramatic. I've told you that I don't care about that.”

Jaime scoffed. “I've just stood and listened to you fume about his slights. And you expect me to believe you don't care?”

“That was about my  _ father _ ,” Brienne hissed, trying to ignore the indignation rising up in her again, wanting to talk clearly. “I'm talking about me.”

He shook his head. “You're being naïve. You think when our engagement comes out, Selwyn won't be brought into it? He's the reason you barely have an inheritance.”

Brienne reeled, and when she felt the press of her nails against her palm, she realised she was clenching her fists. “Jaime...” she warned.

He pinched his eyes shut, and she could see that he wished he hadn't said that, but it was too late.

“My father is not likely to forget an issue of money quickly, and as you have pointed out, that makes him cruel. I don't want him taking that cruelty out on you. I don't care whether you're the richest or poorest woman in England. But that is what we're talking about. Look at what happened when Tyrion got engaged.”

“Now you're being naïve,” Brienne sighed, and Jaime blinked in confusion. “This isn't just about marrying a woman of no fortune, it's about marrying Selwyn Tarth's freakish daughter.” He flinched and visibly searched for words, but she pressed ahead, ignoring the lump in her throat. “Tywin's treatment of Tyrion has made it  _ abundantly _ clear that he cares about appearances just as much as money. He wouldn't embrace me as a daughter if I were worth twice what you are.”

Jaime opened his mouth, then closed it again. He look deflated, oddly small. “Is this supposed to convince me to tell him?” he asked, trying for humour but not quite achieving it.

She reached out for the lapel of his jacket, smoothed it with her finger and thumb. “I understand. I understand it's your family you're talking about. I know it's going to be unpleasant, and I love that you want to... protect me.” She dropped her hand. “But I don't need your protection. I need your honesty. If there's going to be unpleasantness, then let's at least be married for it?”

He caught her hand and held it in both of his, looking up at her. She could see the desperation in his eyes. “I want you to be my wife. More than anything.”

She wanted to hold him then, reassure him, but she forced herself to extract her hand. “Then be brave for me. I've had men propose to me before, wasting my time, and I've sent them packing.” She took a deep breath, but her voice wavered when she said: “Please don't waste my time.” She walked quickly past him, going through the door and shutting it behind her.

She followed the sound of voices back to the others, ignoring the tightness in her throat. Despite what she had said, despite her fears, Jaime was the one man she did not want to frighten off.

~*~

Sansa took a deep, but unsteady breath as she stepped out onto the platform. It would be a little while before her body realised it was no longer bumping and jittering across England and, by the time it did, a car would be jolting her along the country roads to Stormsend. Beneath the heady, industrial smells of the station, there was a sweetness to the air, and despite the wind whipping her dress and playing at her hair, it was noticeably warmer than Durham.

However, she did not feel at ease. The Baratheons had sent two cars to the station for the Starks; her parents, Bran and Arya were traveling in one, and Robb, Jon and herself in the other. They were unremarkable, sleek black machines, not the ones Robert routinely raced and splintered across Hertfordshire. As she stepped into hers, dipping considerably to avoid bumping her head, she knew she had been in this car before. Shuffling over for the benefit of her brothers, she found herself flush against the window. Her eyes drifted to the handle above her head, and for a moment felt disoriented.

She had ridden in this car with Joffrey before, looked up near that handle and daydreamed about her wedding. The cut of her dress, the forest of bright flowers, the sunlight streaking into the church. She had also found herself staring at that handle – though not really seeing it – as she held back tears, being driven away from Stormsend last December.

When Joffrey had broken things off, he had acted as though he was sending away a toy he was bored with. Cersei and Robert hadn't been home, and at the time she had thought that it was a peculiar, but romantic gesture. That he wanted her to himself, away from prying society eyes. In truth, he must've known that breaking off the engagement would aggravate his parents, but he didn't want to go to the effort of meeting Sansa elsewhere, so he invited her to the house.

She had just enough time to settle down to tea with him, to be content and off her guard, when he delivered the blow.

“The thing is,” he had said, “I'm going to be head of Stormsend one day.  _ My _ wife needs to be remarkable, impressive. She has to be the lady of a great house. And if I'm going to have a mistress, she has to be exciting and...willing.” He had looked pointedly at her lap then, and she had clasped her hands there instinctively. “You're neither.” He gave her a sickening look of false pity, and it seemed to her in that second that the cruelty was so at home on his face, in his voice, that it was incredible that she had missed it.

And so, she had been dismissed. It had taken her roughly six hours to go to him - six hours she had spent restless in her need to see him – only to sit down for less than ten minutes, be stripped to the bone, and sent back again. She had been proud of herself for not crying until she reached her compartment on the train, and squeezed enough of it out that when she finally reached home again, she was able to pretend everything was fine. It was two days before she told her mother. She still wasn't sure how much of Joffrey's proposal had been his parents' idea, but regardless, he had gotten fed up with her.

Night was stealing in as they approached Stormsend, the sky a deep blue smeared with charcoal clouds. Sansa stared out of the window and made herself think of the people she  _ wanted  _ to see - Brienne and Tyrion, the mysterious Tyrells. And she reminded herself that she had pledged to walk in there, head held high, refusing to crumble in front of Joffrey or Cersei.

Let him see, she thought, that I am just fine without his hand. God knows where it's been.

As Stormsend appeared through the trees, Robb reached over and placed his palm on the back of her hand, squeezing gently. She turned her hand so she could hold his, and looked up at him. She had never told him directly about the break-up, but their parents doubtless would have. The big-brother concern in his eyes pained her, and so she smiled at him, as bright as she could muster.

“Don't worry about me,” she whispered, “I'm a wolf, just like you.”

He grinned, that radiant grin unique to him. “Not just like me. Tougher.”

Courage and love warmed the inside of her chest, made her feel lighter, and she leaned into Robb's shoulder as the car rolled to a stop. She hadn't been back since the break-up, having had plenty of excuses to avoid any events at the estate, and last time she had looked at it her thoughts had been clouded with misery. Now she saw the house clearer, and it was curious to think she might've been the lady of it.

She had always admired the building; it was slightly more ornate but also more home-like than Winterfell, which had been built even more sturdily to survive the elements of the north. Also, Stormsend was more of a castle in name – the current version of the building had seen very little fighting – whereas Winterfell had been a true battle fortress, partially reconstructed in the Georgian period to strengthen the exterior and to introduce a more comfortable style of interior living. Now, however, Stormsend reminded Sansa of a thorny bush, deterring creatures that might find shelter inside.

Mr Varys waited at the bottom of the steps with a wheelchair for Bran, pushing it to the door of the other car so that he could lower himself into it. When Sansa got out, she could see Cersei and Robert at the door, silhouetted by the glow from inside. Dark as his face was, Sansa could tell that Robert was already looking sharply at Jon. The drive crunched under her feet as she walked swiftly to her cousin, taking his arm firmly. He looked startled at first, and she leaned close to his ear.

“They won't see us falter,” she told him quietly, “not for a second.”

He looked at her, then in the direction of Robert and Cersei, that curious, almost blank look on his face as he considered.

And then suddenly he was smiling at her, faint but genuine. “Not for a second.” He didn't sound entirely convinced, but neither was she. It didn't matter. For now, it just had to be enough to get them through the door.

“I was wondering when the Hell you were going to show up!”

Robert's booming voice seemed louder in the dark, and Sansa saw a cold, hateful look in Arya's eyes, even in the dark. When she looked at her mother, she could see the same look, just shrouded slightly by propriety. Ned seemed to catch it too, because he was glancing nervously at Catelyn before he attempted a smile for Robert.

“Not easy to get a family of seven across country,” Ned sighed, meeting Robert halfway down the steps.

“Should've come by yourself and let them make their own way!” Robert laughed gratingly, and slapped Ned on the back. “Come on inside, it's bloody freezing out here.”

When Sansa was younger, she had never questioned the depth of her father's patience and love for Robert. She had believed that seeing him genuinely brought her father joy, and good memories. Maybe that had been the case at some point, but now she saw the fatigue in Ned's face that had nothing to do with the journey. There was love there, yes – it was hard to scrub love out of Ned – but now there seemed to be tolerance and courtesy more than delight. A weight added, rather than taken away.

Beyond her own shaky opinion of Robert, Sansa could understand it; she had come to see her own father's demons, and how he bore them like a duty. But Robert was different, he liked to hold court with his demons, without concern for the comfort of others. He would bring up Lyanna despite Ned's discomfort, he would mock Cersei (and her siblings) when her intelligence smarted him, and if he was reminded of his age or ineptitude in something he would question the masculinity of others. Would Joffrey end up like him, Sansa wondered? If true, she had certainly dodged a bullet.

Robert glanced at her then, as if he could've heard her. He looked at her strangely, with something like regret. Did he actually pity her over his son's actions? There wasn't long, though, to determine his expression, because then his gaze shifted to Jon. A darkness took root there, and a few tense moments seemed to pass for Sansa, before he turned determinedly to steer Ned inside.

“Wait 'til you see who Renly brought with him. God knows wh...”

The thread of the conversation was lost, and Jon broke away from her. At first Sansa was alarmed, but then she realised it had just been to help Robb get Bran up the stairs. She couldn't see Jon's face to be sure, though, and his head was held conspicuously low.

Sansa looked over at Cersei. She thought of her father's patience, and her mother's polite mask when she said: “It's very kind of you to have us all.”

There  _ was _ pity in Cersei's face, mixed with something else that Sansa couldn't quite work out. She didn't look at Sansa the way she had before the engagement - the way she had looked at her since she was a child – now Sansa felt herself appraised as a fellow woman. There was something frightening about that, the idea that she had come away from Joffrey permanently changed, in the minds of others as well as her own.

“What sort of weekend would it be, without all of you?” Cersei asked.

So much of what Cersei said could be read multiple ways. Sansa thought it almost an art.

Inside, the house was bustling as the servants were preparing the dining room, and others upstairs were hurrying around to assist the guests getting ready for dinner. Sansa felt warmer as she and Arya climbed the stairs, getting further and further from the chill of the foyer. Jon ascended carrying Bran; there was another chair waiting on the first floor, so he could get around without dragging one chair up and down the stairs. Bran had offered several times not to come, making out he didn't want the Baratheons going to the trouble of organising things for him. In truth, it was just an excuse to get out of going – he hated Stormsend.

Bran had contracted polio when he was very young, and as a result his legs were mostly paralysed. However, when people asked what was “wrong” with them – usually children – he had a habit of spinning ridiculous excuses for fun.

“My sister pushed me down the stairs,” was one.

“I was shot by a suffragette,” was another.

But a weird personal favourite of his was: “I was witness to a royal affair and they tried to kill me to cover it up.”

Jon was level with Sansa now, but he was looking down at Robert, ruefully.

“You can throw me at him if you want,” Bran suggested, face a picture of seriousness, “I don't weigh much but I think I could knock him off the stairs.”

“Actually, you weigh a tonne,” Jon said, carrying him over to the wheelchair, grunting exaggeratedly as he set Bran down.

The room Sansa had been given was the same one she always took since she was old enough to sleep alone. It was almost in the centre of the house, and was decorated in earthy tones and dark greens, like a forest. A John William Waterhouse painting hung in the room depicting Lamia, gazing up at a soldier – it was something of an in-joke, as she strongly resembled Sansa. She used to wish that her room at home was like this one, inspiring thoughts of fairytales and myths as she fell asleep, a magical wilderness to protect her. Before December, she would lie in the bed and think about her future in the house, when – one day – she would be the lady of it.

It was still a beautiful room, but now it didn't carry the same magic, and she longed for the comfort and safety of her bedroom at Winterfell.

Her gown for the evening was a greyish blue silk that hung like a sheen of water. Unlike her sister, she could never bring herself to bob her hair, having kept it healthy and long since she was a child. Curled and styled up in a chignon, though, it was deceptive. Patting her hair for any loose curls, she took a last look in the mirror and twisted the doorknob, hesitating a moment before she opened the door. Just as she did so, someone breezed past, heading down the corridor toward the stairs. Was that who she thought it was?

Sansa stepped out of the bedroom and turned left, finding Margaery Tyrell standing there. She had stopped mid-walk, and was looking back at Sansa with a curious smile. It was so strange to see her there, in the flesh, and Sansa felt as if she had crossed some threshold into another world.

“Hello,” Margaery said, her tone familiar and warm, as if she had been up here with the sole desire of talking to Sansa. She walked over, her hand out. Sansa took it before she realised what she was doing. “Margaery Tyrell.”

“I know,” Sansa replied, thoughtlessly, and then realised how rude that sounded. “I mean, sorry, I...” She laughed, embarrassed, and it came out a little too high. She felt as if someone had taken all the words she had collected over the years, and spilled them out into a pile, and now she didn't know how she was supposed to use them. “I'm Sansa Stark. I recognised you from your films.”

Margaery beamed. “Sansa! Brienne has told me so much about you.” She tilted her head slightly toward Sansa, and Sansa caught a hint of perfume. “Don't worry – only good things.”

Margaery's hair almost reached her chin, styled in glossy brown curls that framed her face, as if demanding you look at it. Her wine-coloured dress showed a lot more skin, Sansa couldn't help but notice. She had seen other women in the same cut before, but this made her feel a tad flustered. Perhaps it was because Margaery was so close.

She was still holding Sansa's hand.

“Brienne is very kind,” Sansa said, because she couldn't think of what else to say, and was dangerously close to staring. It was understandable, she realised - she had never met a film star before.

Margaery nodded. “Another tall beauty, like yourself.” Sansa felt her cheeks flood at that. And she swore she could feel her ears burning. “But if we become friends, you can tell me all the bad things too.”

There was something about the way Margaery said that, some undercurrent of meaning that Sansa couldn't name, but somehow felt she should be shocked. Her mouth fell open, but she didn't have a clue how to reply to that.

Margaery saved her the trouble. “I'll see you at dinner, Sansa.” She looked at Sansa's hand, and for one absurd moment, Sansa thought she was going to kiss it. But Margaery simply released it carefully, leaving it hovering there for a moment, and making Sansa feel like a figure in a religious painting, arm outstretched. As Margaery walked away, Sansa could see that the dress was cut almost to the small of her back. A sudden, vivid thought entered her mind that she could easily trail Margaery's spine with her finger, and it shocked her. She pivoted violently and headed to Arya's room.

She had been traveling too long. Or she was coming down with something. Possibly both.

When Arya answered the door, she was wearing a black dinner jacket, white bow tie, and black trousers. She hadn't gone so far as gelling her hair, but it was swept back neatly. Sansa gawked at her, and - for some reason - Arya was looking at her equally strangely.

“What's with you?” Arya asked, eyebrow raised.

“ _ Me _ ?”

“Yeah, you look all weird and guilty and-” Arya made a circular motion with her hand, “-red-faced. Were you spying on Loras or something?”

“Loras?” Sansa repeated, bewildered. Her mind had been so accosted by Margaery, she had almost forgotten about her brother. “Never mind me. Look at  _ you _ . Does Mother know you're wearing  _ that _ ?”

Arya snorted. “You must be joking. I had to smuggle it here in Jon's luggage.”

“For  _ God's sake _ , Arya!” Disbelief was hurtling toward anger, and Sansa didn't quite know why, but she didn't know how to turn it around either.

“What? I think I look good.” Arya smoothed down her lapels with satisfaction, then nodded at Sansa. “You know I hate wearing stuff like that.”

She  _ did _ look good, of course, but that wasn't the point, was it? Sansa didn't understand why Arya had to demand such attention, why she relished causing a stir so much.

“Why do you always have to start trouble?”

“I'm not starting tr--  _ Why _ are you getting so upset?” Arya sounded irritated too, now. “You always have to be so emotional!”

Sansa was about to come back at Arya, but she stopped herself. She didn't want to get into one of their circular childish arguments, so she threw up her hands and started walking down the corridor.

“I'll see you downstairs,” she snapped.

She thought she heard Arya mutter “absolutely mad” before she turned the corner, and nearly stomped her way to the staircase.

As Sansa headed down, she realised that she was frustrated that while Jon and herself – and indeed others – were approaching this weekend with the sole desire of getting through it, and avoiding as much censure as possible, Arya was entirely fearless on that score. She would say what she wanted, wear what she wanted, and didn't give a damn about the comments it invited. One day that attitude could get her into serious trouble, but in truth, Sansa envied her for it.

Brienne met her at the foot of the stairs, wearing a golden velvet dress. She didn't like dresses either, but to Sansa's mind she looked perfectly lovely in them. She was wearing a Tarth sapphire ring on her left hand, part of the silver setting cutting into a moon shape, as if it was against the evening sky. The sight of Brienne and her gentle smile filled Sansa with calm. She forgot about Margaery and Arya for a moment, and returned the smile.

“How are you?” Sansa asked, as they fell into step.

“Hmm.” Brienne tilted her head from side to side. “Surviving.”

“It's early yet,” Sansa muttered, darkly. She looked Brienne up and down, and then took her arm. “Don't get me wrong, I'm so happy you're here. But why are you?”

There was a pause, and then Brienne sighed. “Well, Tyrion wanted some agreeable company, so he insisted. I didn't want to say no.”

“Tyrion has  _ plenty _ of company. And he's going to be busy with that Targaryen woman, anyway.” Sansa shook her head. Sometimes Brienne was too loyal, too nice. “I think my family's going to be stuck with Cersei and Robert for the rest of our lives. You're not.”

“No,” said Brienne, and her tone was oddly distracted. “It doesn't look that way.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry felt as if he should avoid her eyes, then. “I'm sorry, Miss?”
> 
> “Don't call me Miss. At dinner.” He blinked, struggling to keep up with the thread of the conversation. “Are you scared to look at me now?”
> 
> Her goading tone rankled him enough to look hard at her. “I just wanted to be ready if you needed anything, My Lady.”
> 
> She snorted, getting up from the seat. “You can call me Arya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, right? I am back... at last. Life happened for a while (it's still very much happening, but hey). I reread the existing chapters of this recently and was like, "oh, this is...good?" remembered how touched I was by the feedback and made an effort to continue. I hope you're still interested, and I hope you like it.

“So, what d'you suppose my chances are?”  
  
Gendry had been checking his reflection in the tarnished square of mirror over the sink. Frank, a fellow footman with whom he shared a room, had been nattering for some time, as he was wont to do, and every so often Gendry was forced to tune him out. He was currently perched on the end of Gendry's bed, which he had a habit of trying to steal since, allegedly, it was more comfortable than his own.  
  
“You what?”  
  
“Margaery. Do you think I'd stand a chance there?”  
  
Gendry turned to him and stared. “Have you been drinking floor cleaner?”  
  
“Lots of rich married ladies like a bit of rough from time to time. Everyone knows that.”  
  
Gendry pointedly skipped over that. “And what do you suppose would happen if you got caught slipping it to Lord Renly's wife?”  
  
Frank shrugged his broad shoulders. “Someone has to.”  
  
Gendry's expression darkened, and he tugged on his jacket, straightening out the sleeves a little more roughly than necessary. “Y'know when you put so much stock in gossip, you're as bad as the Upstairs lot.”  
  
“Oh, come _on_ ,” Frank groaned as he flopped back on the bed, “everyone knows he's bent.”  
  
“I'd like to meet this Everyone you keep talking about,” Gendry muttered, stepping into the hall and shutting the door behind him.  
  
He checked the cracked clock that hung on the wall near the staircase – there was just enough time for a smoke before he'd have to serve dinner. This was one night he definitely didn't want to be late; aside from the fact Mrs. Mordane would have him drawn and quartered, he had to admit he was curious to see the Tyrells. Margaery always struck him as alluring in a way that felt dangerous, like he could be corrupted just watching her on screen. And although he didn't know anything about dancing, Gendry could see well enough to be impressed by the way Loras moved.  
  
Of course, it wasn't just the Tyrells he wanted to see.  
  
He moved down through the house quickly, ducking as he passed the kitchen where Mrs. Mordane was talking severely to the cook, Mrs. Lane, and nipped out through the servants' entrance. The night was chilly, a slight wind fanning the distant trees and pulling in a sour smell from the stables, but it was a relief from the panic-filled air of the Downstairs rooms. Up a flight of worn, stone steps from the kitchen and cleaning rooms, the servants' entrance led out onto a small square of gravel, tucked out of sight from both the front drive and the rear gardens. It was, therefore, the only acceptable place for servants to step out for a cigarette, but it didn't guarantee they'd be safe if Mrs. Mordane or Mr. Varys came across them.  
  
A blue Rolls Royce was parked there – Renly's, Gendry supposed – and he stepped closer to admire it. Looking at the rich, spotless upholstery, he tried to imagine what it would feel like to be behind the wheel of a car like that, with the freedom to take it anywhere. In that reality, he could have whatever girl he wanted in the seat beside him, and not be ashamed.  
  
“If you're thinking about stealing it, I saw it first.”  
  
Gendry turned his head and was startled to see a maid hovering in the shadows, the light from her cigarette twinkling as she took a drag. It was the new one. The redhead. What was her name again?  
  
He walked over. “Were you planning on selling it for the parts, or did you just want the pleasure of driving it?”  
  
She tilted her head from side to side, appearing to seriously consider. “For the parts. Blue's not really my colour.”  
  
“In that case, we could split it fairly even. What do you say?”  
  
“I saw it first,” she said again, and smiled in such an ambiguous way that he really wasn't sure if she was joking.  
  
“Fair enough.” He took out the sad little roll-up that was stashed away in his pocket, already halfway smoked, and was about to light it.  
  
“Here.” To his surprise, the maid was offering him a cigarette from a fancy-looking pack with German writing on. He glanced at her face, wondering for a moment if he should ask whether she nicked them.  
  
“Thanks,” he said instead, taking one. She lit it for him, and he blew the smoke up into the night sky. “Remind me of your name, would you?”  
  
“Eegret.” She broke into a slow grin at the apparent confusion on his face. “Y-G-R-I-T-T-E.”  
  
That helped little. “Is that French?”  
  
“Do I sound French?”  
  
He shrugged and tapped his cigarette, watching the ashes flutter off. “Suppose your father was? Or your mother.”  
  
Her brow wrinkled, something heavy and unknowable sitting behind her eyes. He got the sense he had struck a nerve, somehow. “Maybe it is French. I never asked.” She sniffed. “Gendry sounds a bit French.”  
  
“I don't think they pronounce Gs like that.”  
  
Ygritte raised her eyebrows. “You an expert, then?”  
  
She had a directness that was very disarming and Gendry blushed slightly, shook his head. “Not at all.”  
  
Gendry might've been a French name, for all that he knew. His mother hadn't lived long enough to be so much as a memory; all that he had of her was a tiny, dog-eared photograph, the knowledge that she had been a factory worker, and her name - Helen. There was even more noticeable void when it came to his father. Gendry wasn't even sure if he was alive, not that it made any difference to him.  
  
He had been raised in a damp-ridden, overcrowded orphanage in the East End, and although the staff weren't particularly strict, they were stretched too thin to give the attention a lonely child needed. The left side of the building always smelled of acrid smoke from a factory nearby, and it lingered even after the factory closed down, staining parts of the ceiling black. Gendry never felt like he got a true night's sleep, often kept awake by the cries and coughs of the other children, and the groans of the building itself. Many ghost stories were attached to the halls, sustained by the older children trying to scare the younger ones, and encouraged by the staff to deter children from leaving their beds at night. The most common tale was about Miss. Lenox who ran the orphanage until 1882, and with no family to care for her had spent her final years there. Apparently, you could see her wandering the halls, eyes cloudy from cataracts, scraping her walking stick on the ground.  
  
Gendry always insisted he didn't believe the stories, but many times at night he would consider sneaking down to the kitchen or even just getting up to stretch his legs, only to hear a scraping sound that kept him firmly where he was, eyes pinched shut.  
  
During his seventeenth year, he had been called into the office of the orphanage head, Mrs. Cecil and was told he would be leaving that afternoon for Hertfordshire. More baffling still was the reason why - he had been found a position at the estate of an Earl. Lurking behind Mrs. Cecil was an older, smartly dressed man with an unreadable expression, which turned out to be Gendry's escort to Stormsend, Mr. Selmy. Gendry had always been good at his chores in the orphanage, acted as a big brother to a lot of the boys, but to receive a job out of nowhere? And in a prestigious home, no less? It didn't make the slightest bit of sense. It seemed like a practical joke, but he knew better than to laugh at Mrs. Cecil.  
  
He wasn't given much time to mull it over. Mrs. Cecil followed him back to his room and watched him sharply as he scrambled together his meagre belongings, hurrying him when he stopped to look around in bewilderment and realise he was bidding farewell to his home. He wouldn't let her stop him from saying goodbye to the others, however. Some of the younger boys cried, and he pulled himself up to his full height, which was still a work in progress.  
  
“Now don't cry,” he told himself as well as them, “I'll be back to visit soon.” He didn't know how true that was, didn't even really know where he was going, so he mussed up their hair and headed off before they could ask him questions.  
  
When he was sitting with Mr. Selmy on the train, waiting for it to depart, he finally summoned the courage and wherewithal to ask:  
  
“Why me, Sir? Why've I been sent for?”  
  
Mr. Selmy looked at him for a few moments, something close to sympathy in his eyes, then finally sighed and said: “Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, lad.” He had then lowered his attention to his book, a clear sign that the matter was closed.  
  
Gendry had fidgeted on the seat and stared out of the window as they moved through the country, seeing more of the world in those hours than he had in his whole seventeen years. There was something frightening about being confronted with that vastness, that unfamiliarity. He leaned his head against the cool window and tried not to feel sick. Eventually, night swallowed up the alien countryside, as if cutting him off from his old life.  
  
For his first few years, his jobs were dirty. He worked on the land, in the stables, scrubbing the dankest corners of the castle. He did work that made his clothes stink and his hands crack and bleed. He saw very little of the Baratheons themselves, only glimpses when one of them visited the stables or passed him in a hallway, not seeming to see him at all. One autumn day, Cersei descended smoothly from her horse and came straight over to him, gripped his chin in her hand and tilted his face up to examine it. What she was looking for he wasn't certain, but judging by the way her lip curved, perhaps she had found it.   
  
Just over a year later, he began training to become a footman, and there he had stayed. The uniform had felt strange on him at first. He was used to feeling unclean in someway or other, and was seized with a fear that any moment the post would be wrenched from him. It was in his first year as a footman, serving at a dinner between the Baratheons and the Starks, that he became aware of Arya.  
  
Unlike most people at the table, she noticed who was serving her. She looked right at him as she thanked him - there was something almost intimidating about it. But at the same time, there was a brightness to her that intrigued him, and he found himself looking at her as he stood by, paying attention to the sound of her voice. Despite her breeding, she seemed severely lacking in propriety – her parents and older siblings were constantly chiding her - but not confidence. She was fearsome and lovely all at once.  
  
Later, he had nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned a corner and found her, perched on a window-seat.  
  
“You were staring,” she said simply.  
  
He felt as if he should avoid her eyes then. “I'm sorry, Miss?”  
  
“Don't call me Miss. At dinner.” He blinked, struggling to keep up with the thread of the conversation. “Are you scared to look at me now?”  
  
Her goading tone rankled him enough to look hard at her. “I just wanted to be ready if you needed anything, _My Lady_.”  
  
She snorted, getting up from the seat. “You can call me Arya.”  
  
“No, I can't.”  
  
“Yes, you can.”  
  
Presently, Gendry became aware suddenly of a voice raised, not from the servants' door – as was his first, panic-stricken thought – but somewhere nearby. A glance at Ygritte told him she had heard it too, and she pinched out her cigarette, stowing it back in the pack before walking alongside the wall leading to the rear grounds. Gendry dropped his cigarette, stubbing it out with his foot before following her. When he rounded the corner, he found her looking in the billiards room window. Her face, strangely stern, was bathed in yellow light. She reminded him of a painting he had once seen of the Sirens crowding Odysseus's ship.  
  
The raised voice was Robert's; even with the window muffling it, it was a familiar sound to anyone who inhabited Stormsend, and a particular heaviness to his voice made Gendry think he was likely drunk. What did surprise him was that Lord Stark was the one he was shouting at. Gendry stood slightly to the side of the window; even with all the inside light being reflected back by the glass, they could see Ygritte and himself.  
  
“ _Move back_ ,” he hissed, but she just shushed him.  
  
“...my house and I don't see how you should tell me how to behave in my own house. I get enough of that from Cersei.”  
  
“I'm sure you find your ways to get back at her,” Lord Stark replied darkly, turning slightly more toward the window so that Gendry flinched, moving back further.  
  
“And what do you do about that, Ned?” Robert asked, sharply. “You come in here and pass your judgements, but you still believe what happens between man and wife--”  
  
“This isn't about your wife, this is about--”  
  
“Your bastard nephew, I know.”  
  
“Careful, Robert.” Lord Stark had pivoted sharply toward him, his body straight and unyielding, his tone a clear warning.  
  
“Gendry?”  
  
The sudden sound of his name made Gendry jump, and he rounded the corner to see Mrs. Mordane, her expression stony.  
  
“What on earth do you think you're doing out here? You're needed for dinner any second.” Her eyebrows raised suddenly, and Gendry realised that Ygritte had appeared at his shoulder.  
  
“We were just having a smoke, Mrs. Mordane,” he replied quickly, seeing the danger build in Mrs. Mordane's eyes. It wouldn't do Ygritte or himself any good if she thought they were carrying on, and he took a small step away from her.  
  
“Well, both of you inside right now. You should know better than to smoke where the family could see you.”  
  
Gendry and Ygritte hurried inside, and just before he headed upstairs she caught his arm. Voice lowered, she peered hard up at him. “Bastard nephew?”  
  
Gendry blinked a moment before he understood. “Jon Stark. Black hair, always looks a bit sad. You'll see him.” Ygritte had let go, so he started to head up the stairs, but her expression said she wanted to know more. “I'll explain later.”  
  
*  
  
Rather than a house, Stormsend Castle seemed to be made of so many various habitats, tenuously connected. Margaery felt she could easily wander the halls in a certain direction and never be aware of another human being. Once in awhile she might catch a glimpse of a servant, darting out of view, or hear a door closing somewhere nearby, but it was quite easy to feel alone. She had been in many large houses, particularly in California, but all of them would shrink away in comparison to the Baratheon estate.  
  
She had been intending to head straight down after changing. Last night's booze had been sitting heavily on her stomach, mixing ill with the travel, but now it had settled and the hunger was gnawing at her. However, she had become curious drifting through the halls, counting the rooms and peering up at the paintings, looking for features that resembled Renly's. Every so often she would catch a pair of eyes, bright like his. And of course, she had run into Sansa, and before she knew it she was wandering around distracted, thinking of that singular face, that vibrant hair. Brienne had talked enough of her personality to interest Margaery, but seeing her was another thing entirely.  
  
Margaery turned a corner, now somewhere in the East Wing – she seemed to remember descending a staircase at some point – and found Loras gazing up at a portrait of two young men in 17th century attire, a couple of springer spaniels between them.  
  
“Did you get lost, darling?”  
  
He wouldn't need to turn to know it was her, and so he simply shook his head. “I was poking around. Got distracted.” As Margaery drew beside him, he pointed at the man on the left side of the painting. “Doesn't he look a bit like Renly?” She smiled at him and nodded.  
  
“The eyes,” they said together. The man had the same dark sweep of hair too, and a little of that anxiousness that he always wore on his face. Margaery wondered if there was a painting of Renly himself, somewhere in the house. She decided she would have to ask him later.  
  
“Am I late for dinner?” Loras asked after a moment.  
  
“If you are, so am I.” She looped her arm through his elbow and began leading him away.  
  
“He's right, this place is like a tomb. Can you imagine being mistress of this?”  
  
Margaery took in the ornate ceilings, the polished wood and spotless plush carpets. She thought of the grand bedrooms and cavernous downstairs rooms for entertaining, how splendid it would look with all the right people in it, filled with genuine laughter and music. So much privacy when she wanted to sneak a lovely woman away from the crowd. She imagined what it would be like to walk through this house knowing she controlled every little part of it.  
  
All this passed through her head in mere seconds and she said: “Hmm.”  
  
Loras hummed a laugh and nudged her. “Well, I know _you_ could. You'd be good at it.”  
  
“Done my way, yes-”  
  
“Is there another?”  
  
“-But not forced to mix with all these people.” Margaery glanced about surreptitiously, dropping her voice. “Not married off to someone like _Robert_.” Her stomach churned at the mere thought, and she had to stop herself from gripping Loras's arm. If she had been saddled with a man like that, she wouldn't last the year. Or rather, he wouldn't. Renly had often said how lucky he was to be able to marry her, but in truth, she felt far more saved by the marriage.  
  
Shortly before her engagement to Renly, MGM had been hounding her over “disquieting talk” about the company she kept – she suspected a rebuffed admirer of Greta's had been gossiping about their fling, which couldn't have helped – making her increasingly afraid she would end up having to net a husband to cover herself. It would have been a dangerous thing, done in desperation, and the thought of ending up with a strange man - who would no doubt expect to share her bed - still made a chill go down her spine.  
  
“I wouldn't stand for that,” Loras told her, and there was a true threat in his tone. She gave his arm a soothing rub with her thumb. “Jaime must be a cold brother to sit by while his sister gets treated that way.”  
  
“Their father didn't give her much choice, from what I've heard. And maybe it helped her cover.” She raised her eyebrows at Loras.  
  
“You don't seriously believe the incest rumours?” Now it was his turn to look nervously for any eavesdroppers. Satisfied they were alone, he gawked at her, somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “All the gossip we deal with?”  
  
She laughed. “I'm not saying that, no. Although a lot of _our_ gossip is founded in truths.”  
  
“My God.” He tilted his head back and sighed. “It is odd that someone handsome as he is is still unmarried. Maybe he's one of ours.”  
  
The hallway had opened out, and they found themselves back in the foyer. The wind whistled gently on the other side of the front doors and the inky black night was visible through the windows, giving an impression of the house being sunk in some void. It was hardly the dead of winter, but Margaery found that the English weather was something she definitely hadn't missed. The summer could scarcely be said to arrive at all, and when it did it was fleeting.  
  
“Growing up here must have been something,” Loras murmured, almost to himself.  
  
“Well, we weren't exactly raised in a beach hut, darling.”  
  
“Compared to this it was.”  
  
Although there hadn't been the established money and titles in their family to impress Stannis or Cersei, the Tyrells were certainly financially comfortable. Their grandmother Olenna had been a successful stage actress, acquiring a decent living of her own and a place in the zenith of London society. She had then caught the eye of Luthor Tyrell, head of the Highgarden fashion house, who attended play after play in an attempt to court her. And while Luthor was certainly _nouveau riche_ , his fortune and charm were enough of an incentive for Olenna to retire early. Margaery and Loras had grown up in the exclusive Highgarden Square in London from which their grandfather's company took its name; it boasted an enviable, central garden meant only for those living in the airy Georgian townhouses that surrounded it. In spring and summer it was bright with flowers and lively with expensive picnics dotted on the immaculate lawn. The perfume of the roses had meant spring to Margaery for a very long time, wafting on the breeze up to the window of the nursery.  
  
With less money being spent on extravagant clothing, the war years had been a difficult time for Highgarden house, and competing with the likes of Chanel and Schiaparelli in the '20s had forced them to make more daring garments to stand out. They were often accused of showing too much skin or, on the other hand, encouraging masculinity in young women with their fetching suits for ladies. But the stir Highgarden caused ultimately saved them, and they went into the '30s stronger than ever before. Margaery's gown for the evening was one of theirs, and where the fabric met the small of her back there was a tiny, golden rose embroidered – the company's insignia.  
  
Margaery glanced at Loras's face and saw something disturbing there. To others, there would be no obvious distress, but she recognised every ripple of unhappiness or anger in him. Right now, there was a tension about him, in his body and features. His eyes seemed distant.  
  
“What's wrong? Don't tell me you're envying Renly's childhood.”  
  
He didn't answer immediately, and there was a blankness to his face that made dread creep into her stomach. “When Grandmother visited us last month, she took me aside. She said Father wants me married, and soon.”  
  
Margaery frowned. “What on earth for? Will and Garlan are both married, _and_ he just got a new grandson.”  
  
Loras gave her a long look that said, _come on, Margaery_. “You know what for.”  
  
She stopped, anger rising in her now. “Oh, that's ridiculous. You're still young, and you're busy in Hollywood. You could barely get time off for this trip. You're not being married doesn't have to mean--”  
  
“What it means? Grandmother may think Father is thick-headed, but even he can see that. Even if he won't say it to my face.” He broke away from her and went over to the window, sighing. “Evidently the gossip is quite colourful back home. Grandmother asked me if I had an affair with Ramon Novarro.” He scoffed.  
  
“So what do they tell people?”  
  
“They laugh it off, obviously. Say all these women are throwing themselves at me and I'm just enjoying myself.” His smile faded slowly. “But now that you're married too it seems my days are numbered.”  
  
Margaery felt like she should apologise, but for what, she didn't know, or what good it would do. “Do they know it's Renly?”  
  
Loras looked thoughtfully at his hands, fiddled with his cufflinks. “No--I don't think...no. And if Grandmother's guessed she isn't saying. I don't think they even care _who_ I marry, they just want to shut people up. Highgarden has liberal clients, but they're not all _that_ liberal.”  
  
She felt stung, as if a bullet had grazed her. She had never fallen under much suspicion herself; Father didn't seem to believe that such women existed, neither did Will or Garlan, and Mother would never utter such a thing. Margaery suspected her grandmother might be far more familiar with the idea, but evidently had never put it into her family's heads. Still, there was the fear of how they could turn on her if they knew, and never was that fear more present than when Loras was under suspicion. And not just because his predicament was hers, but because she couldn't bear to see her brother in pain.  
  
The lights around them seemed too bright, all of a sudden. The glare of them pressed down on her body.  
  
“So, then, do what I did, darling.” She walked over and took his hands, forced her camera-ready smile. “Marry some sapphist and you both benefit. They'll be miles away and none the wiser.”  
  
She expected him to smile back. He didn't. “And what happens when there's no child, Margaery? Did you think of that? How long before Mother starts asking you why you haven't started a family?”  
  
She found herself leaning back from the impact of that question, of her brother's stare. That fear and frustration she carried in her was now writ large in his eyes, making her insides twist. She realised she had become too complacent, swaddled by the life they had made for themselves in California. She suddenly wanted to go back home immediately.  
  
Margaery became distantly aware of a door opening nearby, and she turned to see Cersei, gaze switching curiously between herself and Loras.  
  
“Ah, here you are.” Cersei replaced that suspicion with a smile so swiftly, Margaery thought what a pity it was she had never turned to acting. “Dinner is ready. Don't want it to get cold.”  
  
She hovered in a way that made it clear she expected them to follow, and Margaery nodded. “Sorry,” she beamed, “we got caught up admiring your home again. You really have done a marvelous job of decorating.” She caught Loras's arm without daring to look at his face, and began leading him as Cersei headed to the dining room.  
  
Cersei glanced over her shoulder as she walked, face still pleasant but eyes fixed sharply on Loras. “I hope you're not unwell?”  
  
To Margaery's relief, Loras seemed to collect himself. His voice was remarkably light when he replied: “Just the after-effects of travel, I'm afraid. I'm sure dinner will do the trick.”  
  
Cersei nodded and faced forward again. “I'm sure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Margaery absolutely had it off with Greta Garbo.
> 
> Also, I've obviously done my best to make things as true to the time period as possible, with some possible leniency for artistic license and the natural limitations of research (sometimes I find conflicting info about terminology and forms of address, sometimes I can't find a straight answer). But I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

**Author's Note:**

> So begins this random AU idea that would not leave me alone. If you enjoyed this please let me know! It does make a fic writer's life a little brighter~


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